


para bellum

by masqvia



Series: astra inclinant [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Author has no idea how aether works but that shouldn't be a problem, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends To Lovers (Speedrun), Light Angst, Lore? Canon? We don't know them here, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Romantic Soulmates, Two WoL AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26959921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masqvia/pseuds/masqvia
Summary: In another life, Ardbert returns to the Source for a second time.
Relationships: Ardbert/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Series: astra inclinant [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2090400
Comments: 33
Kudos: 84
Collections: Final Fantasy XIV - Ardbert x WoL Recommendations





	para bellum

_(—si vis pacem, para bellum.)_

**i. ardbert**

It rains nonstop the first week he is on the Source again. 

It feels like an omen.

Lightning streaks across the sky, leaving a bright flare behind his eyelids as they take shelter in some unnamed chain of littoral caves on the shores of Vylbrand. It’s not a situation he expected to find himself in so soon, but he also didn’t expect for part of the cliffside bluff to give right under their feet and send them both tumbling into the sea.

That felt like another omen. And despite the dull throbbing in his side from where stones landed on him, he tries not to think too hard on it. 

“It’s usually not this bad," she says, and it's hard to hear her over the crashing of waves beating against rocks. 

He spares a side glance at the woman beside him. She’s soaked to the bone, hair plastered to her face, doing her best to wring out the water from her shirt. It feels like a pointless gesture. Both the rain and spray from the sea reaches them even in the cave. 

She eventually comes to the same conclusion and sighs, dropping her hands, pale from the chill. "Wonder if there’s a hurricane due to hit shore. What do you think?”

He remembers the line of ships moored at the city, bobbing with the waves. “I think the harbor isn’t ready for it.” 

That earns him a raised brow. “You doubt Limsan craftsmanship?”

“Don’t know it, is all.”

She hums. "That's fair."

His armor clings to him. It’s unpleasant but not wholly uncomfortable—wet leather and fur isn’t something anyone wants to wear—yet not the worst he’s had. The cloth under the leather, at least, is soft and well-worn, though the wet sand that's wedged itself beneath chafes at his skin with every movement. He shakes the rain out of his hair and sighs. 

The aetheryte of Limsa Lominsa shines like a beacon in his head when he closes his eyes. It thrums steadily, and he feels the tug on his gut as he charts a teleport. 

A hand grabs at his arm like a vice. His connection shatters like glass. 

“What are you doing?” she asks. 

He stares down at her, eyebrows raised. “Isn’t it obvious? Taking us back to the city. We’d break our necks trying to climb back up in this storm.” 

A part of the cliffside bluff gives way under a particularly violent wave, crumbling into the sea as if proving the point. She watches the rocks sink for half a second before her gaze flits back to him. 

“We could do that, sure. Or we could go deeper and explore here. You do know that there’s pirates all around the waters here, right?”

He throws a cursory look over his shoulder, at the cave looming behind them. It's dark and dingy; he can't see how far it goes, but with the way the wind howls past it must stretch far. Goosebumps prickle along his skin as the metallic tang of eroded rock clings to the air. He scrunches his nose. 

“It’d be a tight squeeze,” she says, stepping past him and squinting into the dark. “But I think we can make it through that gap.”

“And you want to, what? Look for a pirate’s treasure?”

“Why not? Do you have somewhere else to be?” 

He gives her a flat look. 

“Come on,” she insists, crossing the distance. “It’s either this or squeezing in with who knows how many other adventurers back at the Drowned Wench. The tables are probably packed already, and I don’t enjoy the smell of salt and sweat together.”

He turns on his heel and considers as she starts to shimmy through the gap in the wall. It’d be a tight fit with all of his armor. The jutting rocks would scratch at it, no doubt. 

He frowns as she continues on regardless, with only a wet shirt to protect her. “You realize that naught but more sand could be waiting on the other side, right?” 

“Sure. Or a chest full of treasure.”

“Or monsters.”

“Down here? The worst we’ll find are seals. Some crabs. Or aurelias. Maybe a bear?” 

He wonders just how few dark caves she’s explored to be that optimistic. 

“Or,” she continues, now partially muffled by the walls, “a group of angry pirates, but that’d be part of the fun. Now come on. It opens up more in here.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They don’t find pirates.

What they do find is a nest of bats clinging to the damp stalactites, rotting barrels, sacks strewn everywhere, and dozens of giant spiders. She mumbles under her breath the entire time, jumping at every little noise, clutching her cane with taut knuckles. 

He tries to curb his smirk. “Still reluctant to head back to town?”

She tenses and shoots a glance over her shoulder, eyes darting around as his voice echoes down the cave. The little lights she’d conjured float daintily by her head, illuminating both of them in a soft glow.

A long pause passes. 

Her gaze slides to settle on him. He raises a brow, waiting. 

She deflates. “Okay. But only because it’s pitch dark in here.”

“And not because of the spiders?” 

She snorts, soft. “Definitely not. The little buggers go up like a crisp. What’s there to be afraid of?” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Of all the things he’d expected her to fear, the dark is not one of them. For someone like her—for people like them—it feels so mundane it’s almost hard to parse. 

He’s not sure how to feel about it. 

That she’d be afraid of the dark and not the Darkness, knowing full well what the Ascians are capable of and what horrors often spawn from the void, is ridiculous. But it’s also a charming, pleasant insight to the Warrior of Light that others do not see. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They catch wind of a primal summoning the moment they materialize by the aetheryte, over the din of shouts in the plaza and the heavy patter of rain hitting stone. Lamps flicker under the deluge as the storm worsens, and what little light remains reflects off of strewn puddles. 

It feels like a third omen. At this point, he can’t ignore it. 

They share a glance and rush to prevent it from tempering any wayward adventurers. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Titan was never a favorite of his to fight. 

Still, he expects that fighting beside her will come as natural as breathing. He’d fought her once before, trailed her all throughout Norvrandt, and had a good sense of what to expect from a ranged fighter. 

He's wrong.

It takes him longer than he cares to admit to catch onto her small movements, her minor calculations, and to adjust to her position on the raised summoning platform to ensure she’s not caught in an attack meant for him. 

The low buzz in his head reminds him of the uncertainty that comes with fighting beside someone new. Of the awkward shuffle that comes as they try to adjust to one another mid-battle. He finds himself irritated from the very first minute of the encounter as half of his attention rests solely on her and the other half remains on figuring out the flow of the primal’s swings.

The version of Titan on the Source hits differently, moves differently, and Ardbert raises his axe for an overhead hit just in time to take another fist meant for his chest. The impact knocks the wind from him and sends him flying.

He lands on his feet, skidding across the smooth crystals lodged in the platform. Warm aether hits his back within seconds, wrapping around him like a blanket and healing the bruises before they form. 

He grits his teeth. The restorative spell is potent, ridiculously so, and he feels his hands jitter as his body tries to adjust to the excess energy. A glance out of the corner of his eye confirms his suspicions; she’s focused entirely on him and not on the primal raising its arm. 

The white noise of the Echo crescendos in his head like a swarm of bees. 

“Move!” he barks.

Her eyes widen and she hurls herself to the side.

Rocks and rubble soar in the space she just stood. The loud rumble of crumbling stone passes through his chest as the earthshaker just barely misses her. He has half a second to register the wave of relief crashing through him before he’s up and charging at the primal once more. 

In all, it’s a relatively short affair with nearly no injuries to note, but he can’t shake the lingering fury or the red to his vision. 

He wastes no time in striding towards her the moment Titan falls to its knees. Its form has barely disintegrated before he’s yanking her by the arms. “What were you thinking? Losing track of the battle like that. Have you lost your mind?” 

She blinks up at him. “What?” 

“Or do you take me for a fool? Of a green adventurer incapable of shrugging off the simplest of attacks?” 

“...what?” 

The cave is sweltering with charged aether. His own snaps up and around his feet like a mad dog, tinted amber with his anger. His armor feels too constricting, too hot, like he’s seconds from bursting. But her genuine confusion tempers him and sense comes back in increments. 

He exhales and takes stock of the area with a critical gaze over her shoulder. Lava continues to creep at the edges. There are no kobolds in sight. His eyes shift to dart at the loose stalactites protruding from the ceiling, and while none look like they’re seconds from crashing down on their heads, it gives him an excuse to get his thoughts in order. 

“We had matters well handled,” he says, sharp. “I had it handled. And still, you pushed yourself to the brink. Why?”

She stares at him a moment longer before understanding dawns on her. “Oh. Oh, you think that I…?” Her shoulders droop. “Ardbert, I don’t doubt you or your abilities. It’s not that.”

He crosses his arms. “Then?” 

“I’ve never faced a primal with anyone else. I wasn’t sure, so I erred more on the side of caution.” 

It feels like a bucket of cold water is dunked on his head. He’d gotten so used to seeing her surrounded by the Scions he’d completely forgotten that none of them had the Echo. 

“Primals fight differently,” she says, glancing past him at a hole in the wall left behind by an earthshaker. “They’re not bandits, or beastmen, or monsters. I know you can take a hit. But I also know how much it hurts, so...” 

“You were worried,” he finishes, gruff. 

“Yes.” 

He stares at her. “Okay,” he says, then takes a deep breath. “Okay.” 

The confusion on her face sears into his mind. He turns on his heel and leaves. 

He avoids her for days. 

  
  


**ii. mihren**

Five days later, her feet lead her to Aleport. It’s a town she hasn’t visited in so long she doesn’t know why she’s here until she spots him at the piers. 

He’s perched at the edge of the dock with his legs dangling into the sea, dressed in casual cloth and leathers, looking remarkably similar to the fishers that frequent Limsa. The midday sun bathes him in a warm glow, highlighting the lighter streaks in his hair and spots of freckles on his arms.

Without the axe and armor, it’s easy to overlook him among the group boarding the ferry, and for a moment she’s struck with a vision of him from another life—of one without adventures, without the weight of a heavy past dragging him down and dogging his steps. One where his skin tans from hot hours in the sun instead of growing taut with stress, and one of simpler days without Ascians and reflections and the burden of duty. 

The thought stops in her tracks. She swallows a heavy lump in her throat as she stares at his back. 

What is she _doing?_

He didn’t come to the Source to run around and slay primals with her. He certainly didn’t come here to wait as she runs between city-states putting out fires. 

He’d merely shrugged and said yes when she posed the question. No explanation given as to why—though she’d certainly asked before. The longer she ponders on this, his reasons for coming back, his interests here, the tighter her hands clench around the hemp bag at her side.

What if he didn’t want to do the adventurer life anymore? Was she dragging him back into something he didn’t want? Was he going along with it out of some misguided sense of obligation? Payment for saving the First?

She just about turns on her heel when his voice carries across the pier.

“Hope you’re not waiting on a formal invitation to sit down.” 

Her feet halt and her gaze snaps to his back. He’s still not looking at her, but she can feel the expectant weight of his attention regardless. 

A million more thoughts race through her head, but she quashes them all down and strides forward to settle on his side. A tackle box sits between them, along with some rope, and she places her bag beside it to enforce the physical barrier. 

It’s ridiculous. _She’s_ ridiculous. Ridiculous and brittle and scared for a reason she can’t put her finger on.

He reels in a line, applies more bait, and somehow manages to throw it out again without hitting her. His shoulders are covered but his arms are bare, and she catches the way his muscles flex from the corner of her eye. 

Every word she’d prepared gets lodged in her throat like a stone. The doubt from before swells until she’s digging her nails into her palms. The sun is relentless against her back, making sweat bead down the back of her neck, and it only compounds her desire to run away and hide. 

"You’re going to scare the fish away with that scowl,” he notes after a moment.

"I’m more worried about scaring you away."

His lips twitch. The sight soothes some of her unease. "Lucky for you then that we can both be lured back with food. As I assume that’s what that is.” 

She stares down at the bag as he nods his head at it. It’d been something she brought because intuition told her to, and she’s long since learned to trust that.

After another beat of hesitation, she loosens the knot around it and unwraps the cloth inside. Ardbert leans in slightly to see the contents and raises a brow. 

“Tempura,” she says. “From Kugane. You might like it.” 

“It’s fish?”

“Fried shrimp. Some vegetables, too.”

He reaches in to grab a piece. Holding it between two fingers like somebody might hold a bug, he takes a careful bite. His brows furrow as he chews. “... Huh. Tastes a bit like the charred fish at the Drowned Wench. Less salty though, thank the Twelve.” 

“Good?”

He swallows and nods. “Good. The rest are vegetables, you said? Strange." 

Her hands rest on her lap as he indulges in another piece. The fishing line remains loose, and he briefly tugs on it before sighing and leaning back on one palm. 

She doesn’t know what sorts of fish are caught in this area. She’d tried her hand at fishing before and it didn’t take. But he looks so relaxed, so self-assured and at home on the pier and in the sun that she’s once again struck by the vision of him as a civilian. 

“Ardbert,” she starts slowly, hating the faint tremor in her voice and fixating on the tepid waves below their feet. “Do you want to be here?” 

A sailor yells somewhere behind them, barking out orders at the ship undergoing repairs in port. Someone saws away at wood. A low breeze brings with it the taste of salt and cools her skin, but it all feels dull and far away as though she’s at the wrong end of a long tunnel. 

She digs her nails into her palms again and waits.

“It’s not a habit of mine to be in places I dislike,” he eventually says, slow and careful, steadfast as always. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” 

A breath gusts out of her. “Okay.” 

“That’s not what you want to ask though, is it?”

His gaze is piercing in a way that leaves her feeling naked even when it’s fixed on the horizon instead of her. She looks down and trails her foot along the water, sandals and all. “No.” 

When she refuses to elaborate, he sighs and leans forward on his elbows. “I won’t pry it out of you. Either ask or don’t, but don’t expect me to read your mind—shared soul or not, that’s beyond me.” 

Part of her feels like she’s a young girl again, sweating under her parent’s scrutiny. Why the hell couldn’t she just spit it out? She’s fought literal gods, for goodness sake. 

“Do you…” She wets her lips and tries again. “Are you happy as an adventurer? And as a Warrior of Light?”

“Have I given you reason to believe otherwise?”

You just disappeared for days, she wants to say. “I just want to make sure that this is what you want and not something you’re doing out of… out of some sense of obligation. That you _want_ to keep fighting primals and the like. With me.”

He hums. "Instead of sitting on the sidelines and watching you throw yourself at them like a battering ram, you mean?”

 _That_ makes her look up. “Wh—that’s _you,_ you dolt!” 

He grins, and for a moment she sorely considers smacking him. “Stop overthinking,” he says. “Trust me, it’ll drive you mad long before you find an answer.” 

“You just disappeared without telling anyone. I’d say that’s a perfectly good reason for me to overthink. Not to mention worry.” 

The corner of his mouth twists into another wry smile, but there’s a subdued air around him now, and rather than answer, he holds out the fishing rod. She stares as though it’s some unfamiliar insect. When he prompts her again by nudging his knee against hers, she jerks back. 

“I’ve tried fishing before. Trust me when I say it didn’t end well.” 

He snorts, but casts the line out again. It hits the water with a soft plop. “I sense a story behind that.” 

“A poor one, yes. Suffice it to say that even though I’ve lived around here for a long time now, I unfortunately don’t know the first thing about it.” 

“You must know your way around a ship, at least? The city is made of sailors.” 

“Definitely don’t,” she mumbles. Without thinking, she starts to pick at splinters in the pier with her nail. “Don’t know the difference between a ship and a boat, either—but don’t go around telling people that.” 

That pulls a laugh out of him, and she can’t help but stare as it lights up his entire face.

"No wonder you don't know the first thing about exploring caves ‘round here." He glances at her, and his lips twitch as he tries and fails to suppress a grin. "I mean—a bear? Really?"

"They're known to hibernate in caves!"

"By the sea? Just what sorts of bears do you have here in Eorzea?"

"Gods," she groans and hides her face with both hands, cheeks burning. "You’ll never forget that, will you? And I mentioned seals!"

He gives a solemn nod. “Right, those ferocious beasts. Good thing we didn’t run into one of those. Who knows what might’ve happened?” 

This time, she does shove at him. He snickers and barely budges, but mercifully stops with the teasing once she glares at him with a pout. The back and forth ribbing is familiar and comforting, though, and something she'd missed in his absence. Her heart twinges at how natural it feels. 

His attention slides back to the open water then. The amusement drains from his face as he stares out into the distance, fishing rod all but forgotten at his side. 

She remains quiet, hesitant to interrupt at the risk of having him deflect again. A seagull dives into the sea by the line he cast out—and emerges with a small fish in its mouth—but Ardbert doesn’t seem to care in the slightest. 

“This world is different,” he says, soft. “And I’ve thought about dropping it all before, it’s true. But I can’t, as nice as the thought is. Never been one to sit idle when I know there’s yet more I can do. It’s just…” His lips thin as he trails off. “Things here are just similar enough where I keep thinking about everything left behind.” 

_He's still grieving,_ she realizes in a terrible moment of clarity. No wonder he’d left in such a hurry after Titan. She may not have fought primals with others before, but he sure has. 

She smothers the apologies on the tip of her tongue. This was not the time. Still, she can’t help but place a hand on his arm. 

“Whatever you need—” 

“I need time,” he says, and it’s accompanied by a low, deprecating laugh. “Ironic as that sounds, coming from me. You’d think I’ve had my fill of it.”

Her hand falls. “If anything comes up that I can provide or do—just ask it of me and I will.”

“And I’m thankful for that, but you should know why I go off on my own at times. Though I’ll always be available if a primal shows up, so you can count on me for that. No need to face those alone.” 

“Okay. I’ll be sure to let you know." She pauses. "Instead of running in poised like a battering ram, since you insist on being the only one to do so.” 

That pulls another small smile from him. “Good," he says, and gives a brief nod. “You’d make for a terrible warrior, at any rate.” 

She turns her nose up. “Shows how little you know. I’ll fight the next one swinging an axe right beside you, just you watch.” 

“Will you?” He reels in the line once more. “And just who would you be swinging at?”

“You, if you keep this up.”

He snickers again, and she’s happy to see as the previous stress lines in his face ease as they slip into companionable silence. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


True to his word, she doesn’t see him for days after. And while she can’t fully quash the urge to seek him out, there’s enough on her plate to keep her occupied. 

Still, in the quiet moments between all the errands she finds herself running, he remains a constant presence in the back of her mind. She can’t help but wonder at where he is and what he’s doing, and if this world is kinder to him than the last. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Alisaie paces a hole into the terrace of Rowena’s House of Splendors like a disgruntled tiger, rubbing at the space between her eyes. “Out of all the plans we’ve had so far, this is by far the worst. You can’t seriously be considering—” 

“I disagree,” Mihren says, leaning over a missive from the Ala Mhigan resistance. “I’ve had worse.” 

“Name one.”

“I could give you a list,” Thancred pipes up, arms crossed behind his head and feet propped up on the table. “In alphabetical order, if you’d prefer.” 

Mihren raises a brow at the challenge. “If you want to compare bad ideas, Thancred, I think your list far exceeds mine. But do go on. And take your feet off the table before Rowena sees you.” 

He lifts his hands in mock surrender, but his boots hit the ground. “Fine, fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Alisaie interjects. “Nothing about this is ‘fine.’ She’s going to get herself killed! Piloting a Garlean weapon—an untested one, at that!”

Mihren leans back and frowns heavily. “I trust Cid. If he says it works, then it works. And he says it’s Allagan, not Garlean.”

“It’s not Cid that’s the problem!”

“And I’m in danger all the time. This is no different.”

Alisaie takes a deep, calming breath before pointing a finger at her. “You do recall what the Ruby Weapon did to the land, yes? Not to mention _you?_ And, more importantly, what happened to its pilot?”

“I’m not leaving the Alliance to face this alone.”

“That’s not—” Alisaie huffs and turns to Alphinaud, who has been uncharacteristically quiet. “You talk some sense into her. I fear I may as well be talking to a wall.”

"I'm not certain what you want me to say," Alphinaud mumbles, reading over the missive once more with shrewd eyes. "Since you both have the right of it. It's no doubt dangerous, but if anyone is capable of adapting as the situation calls then it would be our friend here. And further, she’s had experience with the Ultima Weapon before."

"Oh for the love of—have Gaius pilot it, then! Must she always be the only one to stick her neck out?"

"She's right here," Mihren mutters, toeing at a loose stone in the floor. "And she says it's fine."

"I doubt anyone is willing to let Gaius pilot anything," Thancred says. "There are those in the resistance still wary of him and many more just about ready to take his head."

Alphinaud takes the chance to weasel out of Alisaie’s death grip on his arm. "Exactly so, though I can't blame them, given the past."

“Fine,” Alisaie says. She throws her hands up and casts a searching glance around the tables beside them. She must not find what she’s looking for, since it next dips down into the aetheryte plaza below them. "Since neither of you are useful. Where is Ardbert?"

Mihren frowns again. "What does he have to do with this?"

"You listen to him, that's what." Alisaie pauses, and Mihren's stomach drops when she turns with a knowing look. "As a matter of fact, now that I think about it—you _always_ seem to listen whenever he gets involved. Care to share why?"

"I do not. And no."

"Ha! As clear of an admission as I've ever heard." She looks positively gleeful, and just a hint terrifying in the town’s gloom. "Now, where is he?"

Mihren groans, and for once, is thankful that he's nowhere near Mor Dhona.

  
  


**iii. ardbert**

He stares up at the massive Ala Mhigan flag unfurled in the distance. The Garlean outpost—now under Eorzean control—sticks out like a thorny barb amongst the dusty cliffs and dry foliage of the Fringes. It snags his eye, marring the sky as it does. A veritable beam of sleek steel and metal. 

Gyr Abania is part of Eorzea, he knows, but even as a stranger he can tell there’s a different sort of air hanging above the land here. The environment feels dead, dried out, empty in a way that Thanalan does not and he’s barely stepped foot into it. 

He drags his gaze from the tower to stride further from Castrum Oriens, then closes his eyes for a brief moment to get a feel for the aetheryte. The sharp metal of Baelsar’s Wall rises behind him and casts a menacing shadow over the camp. A terrible, gaping hole cuts through the mountainous region on his left—just what sort of monstrosity inflicted such a scar on the land? 

Other adventurers cross the border. Most are Gridanian folk, conjurers and lancers and the like, though many also wear Alliance uniforms. A couple spare him a glance before passing on, deeming him just another traveler. Others pay him no mind. 

He has no reputation in this world. No one except the Scions know of him. It’s a sobering thought, and strangely freeing as he mulls over the implications.

Good survival habits have been beaten into him by years of adventuring, so he makes sure he has enough potions and a handful of spare antidotes before leaving the fort. There was no longer a Lamitt to heal his reckless behavior. No Renda-Rae to watch his flank, no Branden to share blows with. No Nyelbert to blast open a path.

Loneliness surrounds him like a shroud and settles across his shoulders like an old friend, seeping through his armor and into him with such heaviness that he staggers to a stop on the road and sucks in a breath.

He turns his face to the sun rays peeking through the foliage above. A low breeze sweeps through his hair and he clings to the sensation, listening to his heart beat strong and steady in his chest. The warmth of the air settles on his skin and the comforting, familiar weight of his armor grounds him. 

He closes his eyes and listens to the woods around him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The land he traverses is littered with the remains of a war. Scraps of metal and old weapons peek out from the ground, either dust-ridden or rusted so terribly a simple nudge is enough to snap them in two. More than once does he walk around scorched, gaping craters, taking stock of a battle-torn nation; more than once does he wonder just how far and long this conflict had been drawn out, to raze and destroy the land so utterly that none cared to clean it all afterwards. 

He listens to the people as he travels through outposts and towns, to the offhand remarks and comments as they go about their day. There’s a bone-deep weariness that he recognizes, but also the same spark of determined, rebellious life that he remembers seeing in the people of the Crystarium and Kholusia. 

His eyes slide closed when his heart gives a painful pang at the memory. 

_It is in the past,_ he tells himself. _And the past is no longer a place for you to dwell. Move on._

_Move on._

_Move on._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He finds traces of her throughout the entire region. In the land, in the people, and it roots him in place when he blinks and finds her suddenly standing at the edge of a dusty, far-flung town. He wonders for a moment if he’s truly gone mad or if the heat has gotten to him, when the sunlight cuts over the town’s wall and passes through her. 

She casts no shadow. A ghost, he realizes with a jolt, staring numbly at her form. His feet start forward on their own. A smaller spectre forms beside her as he approaches, glowing soft and golden. 

“You saved my life!” It says. It’s shapeless and faceless to his eyes, but he gets the impression of a young boy. “Snatched me from the jaws of death, you did. How could I ever thank you?” 

Mihren—or her spectre, at least—smiles and shakes her head. 

Ardbert blinks. 

They’re both gone as quickly as they’d appeared, and he’s left staring blankly at an empty space. 

Feeling slightly off-kilter and vaguely suspicious that it’s the work of the Echo, he quickly restocks on items and leaves. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He catches a glimpse of her spectre again just as he passes the steps of Port Praetoria, standing at the edge of another treacherous cliff. She’s barely visible over the orange haze of the setting sun, but he can just make out the far-away look on her face as she stares at the imposing figure of the Ala Mhigan palace in the distance. 

He stops a few steps behind her and watches quietly as another golden form coalesces to her right. 

“Are you ready?” it asks her with a distinct feminine lilt. “The Alliance leaders are waiting for you at the tent.” 

Mihren’s spectre remains rooted in place. “Do they really need my help in planning the attack?” 

“They appreciate your input. You’ll be leading the charge into the palace, after all.”

“I’m not a soldier. I shouldn’t be doing this.” 

“None of us are,” the spectre responds.

Mihren snorts. 

“Well, okay, that’s a lie. Raubahn very much is. And so are a few others, as is the Alliance and…” The shade pauses. “Okay, a lot of us are. But everyone looks to you for courage. You’re the Warrior of Light—our beacon of hope. We all need you here.”

“I’m just one person, Lyse.” 

The spectre seems to consider, then sink into itself. “I know how long of a road this has been. Trust me, I of all people know… but we’re so close now. This is the final step. I’m sure of it.”

“It won’t stop here. It never does.”

“For us, perhaps not. We’ll need to rebuild. But I can take care of all of that once we get there. It’s just this final step we’ve got to focus on now.” 

Mihren remains quiet, eyes fixed on the palace, expression inscrutable. He’s struck with the memory of her standing by the window of her room in the Pendants, staring forlornly at the sky, drowned in light. 

It’s always just one more—one more step, one final push, one last sacrifice. 

He knows what she’s going to say. 

“I’ll be there soon,” she murmurs as her shoulders drop. “Just give me another moment to prepare.”

“I will. And thank you. For everything you’ve done for Ala Mhigo. I can’t tell you how much it means to all of us—and to me.” 

The spectre disappears then, but Mihren lingers. She raises a hand and stares blankly at her palm. There’s a resignation about her that he’s far too familiar with, and something in him twists at the sight. 

She curls her hand into a fist, then shakes her head and disappears. 

Ardbert stares thoughtfully at the space the two just occupied and tries to make sense of what he’s seeing. It’s related to the Echo, of that he has no doubt, and likely a memory from this place. But memories through the Echo have never taken this form—have never happened right before his eyes.

A rueful, bitter smile tugs at his lips. 

He’d said he wanted time. And now this? Seeing shades of the past? The ironies never ceased.

He blinks the dust out of his eyes and keeps moving.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dusk has settled by the time he reaches the Ala Mhigan Quarter. 

The monotony of stone buildings is offset by a sprawling tapestry of royal purple rugs, dozens of which hang from windows and across alleys. He finds a rougher determination about the people here and how they carry themselves, yet for all their confidence he still catches the wary glances they throw over their shoulders. At the way they tense at strange noises, how their entire bodies coil as if preparing to take a blow—or to run. 

He decides not to linger, yet can’t help but indulge the flicker of curiosity when he overhears details of a battle taking place in the sky. Especially when he hears about blinding lights and aether flares and the gnashing sound of rows upon rows of teeth. 

He comes to a stop in an open plaza and cranes his head up at the clear, open sky, and the constellation of twinkling stars. Skewing his gaze, he then considers the soldiers standing guard at the stairs leading up to the palace. 

It wouldn’t be worth an engagement. And after thinking about the tense energy of the people, he ducks into an alley to scale a nearby building. 

It's been a long, long time since he's climbed anything, but his body remembers the motions and his muscles are as strong as he'd left them before his death. The flat rooftop he ends up on isn’t the palace grounds, but it’s an open enough space that serves his purposes well enough. With a low breeze in his hair, he tilts his head back once more and closes his eyes. 

The Echo is always fickle with its timing, but he knows the triggers by now. He thinks of the stories he's heard. He thinks of cutting aether and freshly sealed wounds, and before long his head pounds with the familiar feel of an encroaching memory. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Shinryu is massive. 

The Warrior of Light is not. 

Ardbert watches and his stomach churns. 

The name ‘Zenos’ sears into his mind like a brand. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


A faint, bitter taste of corrupted aether sits on his tongue when he settles back into the present. His hands are shaking and clammy at his sides. He clenches them into fists.

The reactions don’t feel all his. The lingering sense of terror definitely isn’t. 

He opens his eyes just in time to see two airships streak through the darkened sky, tethering a large, humanoid colossus of steel and sinew and bright blue lights. It’s nothing like he’s ever seen before, yet his gaze fixates on one airship in particular. 

An odd feeling tugs at his gut. 

He frowns and watches as they fly towards the Alliance camp he’d gone past.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The Rising Stones is quiet when he returns later in the week. Most of the Scions are out and about engaging in their own interests, and though he’s welcome here, he still feels a bit like a trespasser when he walks in and helps himself to a drink. 

Alisaie is the only other person in the room, and although she continues writing away in the journal on the table before her, he can feel her attention zero in on him like a fine point the moment he walks through the door. 

He takes a sip of his drink. When the weight of her focus lands on him, he makes a show of setting his axe against the bar as he takes a seat. 

Despite glancing at him, she doesn’t raise her head. 

Ardbert locks his gaze on the rack of bottles before him. He doesn’t remember the last time he purposefully telegraphed all his actions like this and feels a bit ridiculous for feeling the need to do so. 

“So,” Alisaie says, and Ardbert somehow gets the impression he’s about to regret this conversation. “How are you finding Eorzea?”

“You know I’ve been here once before.”

“Right. Back when you and yours decided to make a mess of things.” She means to get a rise out of him, he knows, since they’d never put that to rest—not between them, at least—but even so he can’t fully squash the flare of defensiveness it invokes. 

Silence stretches between them, punctuated only by the scratch of her writing. 

This could go one of two ways, he knows. He nurses his drink and says, “I went through Gyr Abania.” 

"Did you now? And how was that adventure?"

"Dusty,” he says. “Hot. Think a scorpion near stung my arse.” 

Alisaie snorts despite her best effort to conceal it. “Nearly did, or did?”

“I wouldn’t be sitting here if it did.” He pauses. “Not as comfortably, at least.”

She snickers loudly at that. Some of the tension sweeps out of the room and he feels a smile tug on his lips. He swirls the ale in his tankard as the taste of it sits bitter and cool on his tongue, with a hint of sweetness. He idly wonders what the hells they made it from here. 

After an extended pause, he sets the cup down and stares at it. “You've all been busy since I was last here. How long did the war go on for?"

Alisaie still doesn’t look up, but the feel of her attention on him is calmer now, like a tiger soothed into retracting its claws. "It hasn't ended." 

"It’s no longer a battle for independence, then."

"With how the Empire is, it may as well be." She sighs and puts the pen down, then finally looks at him from across the room. “I take it you heard the stories?” 

He considers the murky liquid before him. “There were many. Though I still haven’t grasped at who started it all. Was it the Empire or the Alliance?” 

“Neither, if it comes down to technicalities. We all played into the Griffin’s hands.” 

Ardbert’s brows pinch together as he tries to recall the name from the stories he’d heard. 

“He was part of the Ala Mhigan resistance,” she tells him after a short pause, leaning both elbows on the table before her and steepling her hands. “And hellbent on dragging the rest of Eorzea into a liberation effort despite everyone’s refusal to do so. Then he went on and used Nidhogg’s eyes to summon a primal at the border... at which point it was far too late for any de-escalation efforts. You can imagine the rest.” 

He goes still. “Nidhogg’s eyes,” he repeats, hollow.

Alisaie’s expression darkens. “Alphinaud could tell you more about them, but they served as a source of aether much as crystals do. Even better, one could argue, considering just what primal he managed to summon with them.” 

_You must retrieve both of the wyrm's eyes from the ravine,_ he remembers Elidibus saying, in the shadows of the Waking Sands. _They will serve instrumental in our efforts to bring forth the Ardor. Find them. Bring them here._

He feels sick. “Shinryu.”

“Yes.” She watches him with eyes far too knowing for one her age, burning holes into the side of his face, and he wonders for a dreadful moment if she’s also drawn the connection. 

He doesn’t ask.

She says, “I take it you also heard about Zenos.” 

He swallows down the creeping taste of bile and grabs at the ale. He downs it in one go. “I did. He sounded like a right monster.” 

“I don’t suppose that you also heard he’s still out there.” 

The floor drops out from under him. The cup comes down hard on the bar. 

She gives him a wry, tired smile. “That’s how we felt when we found out, too.” 

He exhales sharply as if winded, and wonders just how far his mistake stretched. “He survived?” 

“No. But he did come back to life despite everyone’s best efforts, his included. It’s something I’d say the two of you have in common but that’s an insult even I wouldn’t throw at you.” Her smile turns patient. “You, at the very least, have the decency to admit fault when pressed.”

He takes the barb in stride, letting it sweep past him like water down stone. His gaze remains fixed on a point in front of him, eyes dull. “He’s going to come back, then.”

“That’s what we assume. We just don’t know when or where.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Alisaie goes back to writing.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He doesn’t see Mihren for days. 

There’s more than enough to keep him busy, and he goes about it, but there’s a constant, niggling worry in the back of his mind as though he’s forgetting something important. 

It sets off an itch under his skin that he can’t seem to scratch.

He leaves Mor Dhona again. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Gridania smells of moss and honeysuckle. A faint, hazy mist hangs over the forest as the sun rises. 

Somehow, though, despite the woodland’s massive size, it strikes him as small compared to the sprawling forests of Rak’tika. The ancient trees there stretched into the ground and sky both, twisting through the rock like an intricate web. Here, the trees seem short in comparison, sitting with thick trunks instead of reaching for the clouds. 

He strolls down a well-beaten forest path without a care or destination, soaking up the bits of sunlight peeking through the leaves and occasionally moving to the side for a trading caravan or adventurer on chocobo. 

Eventually, he comes across a pair of young adventurers by the side of the road, arguing over how to best take down a hoglet. A slight smile tugs on his lips when it sparks a fond memory. 

Renda-Rae was the best of them when it came to sussing out soft spots and chinks in their enemy’s armor. She’d had an eye for it, simple as that, and nothing the rest of them did ever came close. 

His feet stop, and before he knows it he says, “The underbelly is a good target. And where its legs meet the body. You’ll find less resistance there.” 

The conversation behind him grinds to a halt. He can feel two sets of eyes on his back, and when he casts a glance over his shoulder, the young man and woman are staring at him as though he’d just said something outlandish. Some part of him—an old, shriveled knot of anguish and despair—eases at the sight. 

“We’ve tried, ser,” the man eventually says, sharing a bewildered look with his partner. “We can’t get close enough to land a hit. Those tusks are enough to keep anyone at bay.” 

The woman beside him nods, brows furrowed. “And its hide is too thick. My arrows glance off like they’re made of flint.” 

Ardbert considers the grove beyond them. He remembers his first days as an adventurer, where facing a wild boar seemed a daunting task. Everything was so much simpler then. 

“I can show you,” he says. “If you’d like the help.” 

He can picture Renda-Rae snickering at him, calling him a mother-hen that just can’t resist. But her barbs never had any heat attached to them, and despite her teasing of him, she’d never passed up a chance to help would-be hunters either. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Before the sun sets he ends up in another grove, this time enclosed by rocky outcrops with a singular, sprawling tree in its middle, surrounded by shallow water. 

There’s a strange awareness to the area as he approaches. An ancient, sleeping sort of power, and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end as the sensation of being watched settles over him. 

A soft golden glow from the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he watches as another spectre of Mihren appears, accompanied by a young girl that bears a striking resemblance to her. The details of both appear clear as day, from the relaxed expressions on their face to the soft cotton texture of their clothes, as though the strength of the memory is rooted in this place.

Mihren looks younger. Her hair is cut short, right at the length to brush against her shoulders. There's a lightness to her steps that he's yet to see, and as such he immediately concludes this must be prior to her donning the mantle of Warrior of Light. She wears the robe of a mage—all thick layers and terrible for mobility, near opposite to her choices now—and nigh identical to what he's seen on the conjurers of the city.

They stop before the base of the tree, just a few feet from him, ankle-deep in the shallow water, and turn to face one another. 

"Okay," says Mihren. She clasps her hands together in front of her. "Remember what to do?"

“Pull from the ambient aether. Not myself." 

"Right. Then listen to how it moves. Just be sure to stop if you feel any hint of anger." 

“Because of the elemental. I know.” 

They both close their eyes then, and the steady stream of trickling water and birdsong fills the space. 

Ardbert remains in the shade of the tree and tries to shake the water from his boots. He briefly considers leaning against the trunk while he waits for the memory to play out, but squashes the thought almost immediately; somehow, he gets the sense that it would be disrespectful. 

He shifts his weight, instead. But his attention strays as the seconds drag on, eyes darting around the grove for something to focus on, until he eventually tilts his head to stare blankly at the sunlight flickering through the tree’s foliage. 

He remembers Lamitt and her lectures on how much concentration it took for her to heal. How much concentration it took to cast Ronkan magic. Everything she said was always reinforced by Nyelbert. Patience has never been one of Ardbert's virtues, and it's why he's never succeeded with spells—not for lack of trying, though, to the great amusement of both his friends.

A dull, painful pang rattles through his chest. 

He sighs, then refocuses on the spectres in front of him. 

And nearly jumps out of his skin when he finds Mihren staring right at him. 

He tenses and shoots a look over his shoulder, expecting another spectre to appear and join them in the grove. Nothing but thin air and the trunk of the tree lingers behind him.

His pulse kicks up as he turns back around. There was no way she was staring at him—this was a vision of a memory, of the past—and nothing more. But when she smiles in his direction, eyes crinkling as if hiding a secret, he's no longer sure. 

The girl with her poses a question that goes over his head. They both disappear shortly after. 

He stares at the space a moment longer, then teleports back to Revenant’s Toll. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


G’raha and Alphinaud are the only occupants when he strides into the Rising Stones. They both give him a mild greeting before resuming their low conversation over a pile of spread out, open books. Ardbert sets his axe by the bar as usual, elects to go for water this time, and settles by a table in the back.

The door slams open the moment he takes a seat. It hits the wall with a resounding crack, making both the Scions jump. 

“The Allagans were crazy,” Mihren seethes as she storms in, kicking up wind behind her. “Insane. All of them."

G’raha and Alphinaud share a look. Ardbert quietly watches her over the rim of his cup from the corner of the room. 

"While I don't disagree," G'raha hedges, "Might I ask what—"

"And the Garleans are even worse!" She continues as though she hadn’t heard, throwing her hands up and whirling on them in a display that distinctly yells ‘Alisaie.’ "Who in their right mind creates this sort of technology? Have they no ethics? No decency?"

Alphinaud purses his lips. "I assume Cid and the Ironworks have confirmed the worst."

"Yes! It's monstrous. And I don’t just mean the weapon itself."

Ardbert nurses his drink, content to wait until they inevitably explain whatever the hells they’re talking about.

“It’s called the Oversoul,” Mihren says through near clenched teeth. “They use synthetic auracite to... to overwrite the memories and personality of the pilot. It kills them in the process. As if mimicking the Ultima Weapon wasn’t enough! And worse—it’s in _every_ suit!” 

Her words reverberate through the room and settle over the air like a heavy quilt. 

Ardbert mulls over the new information with narrowed eyes, idly tilting his cup. The raw hostility in her tone feels too personal. Given their link, though, he has a pretty good guess as to why.

Mihren sighs, pulls out a chair, and nearly collapses into it. Her shoulders drop like there’s a line of lead spread over them. She crosses her arms on the table to rest her head, all of the fight leaving her in an instant. 

“I don’t want to keep fighting them,” she mumbles, and he can hear the muffled exhaustion. “Each time I think ‘this is the worst they can do,’ they come up with something worse. It’s like they hear me issue the challenge half a world away.” 

Alphinaud rests a conciliatory hand on her arm. “I’d worry over the security of the Rising Stones if that were the case,” he says, a hint wry. “But despite the revelations that Cid has provided us, I am glad to see you return safely. Though you were due back days ago according to Alisaie.”

She lifts her head. There’s bags under her eyes and a pallid hue to her skin. “I know. I did a sweep of the front lines. Raubahn thought it would be best if I made an appearance just in case the Empire was thinking of trying anything.” 

Alphinaud frowns. “We haven’t heard news of any activity as of late. Is the general expecting trouble?”

“Thankfully, no. But these massive weapons have everyone on edge. And with the chaos being reported out of Garlemald... G’raha, please tell me it doesn’t get worse than this.” 

G’raha gives an apologetic smile. “If only I could. Seeing as we’ve gone and changed history, however, my knowledge of the future is now in line with yours.”

She sighs like she’d expected that answer and sinks back into the seat, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Then her head lolls to the side as she sweeps a glance at the rest of the room. It passes right over him before snapping back. 

She jolts upright. “You’re back!” 

“So are you.” He dips his head in acknowledgement. “Sounds like you’ve had a rough go of it.” 

“You’ve no idea,” she says, but there’s a new, jittery energy about her. “If I have to do one more patrol I just might keel over. Why is it that facing primals is easier than walks across a battlefield?” 

“Because you’re not trained for that lot,” he says easily. “Nor meant for extended battles, at least from what I’ve seen. Your endurance is...” He seems to think a moment, and reaches for his drink again.

Mihren rests her chin in her palm and taps away at the table. “Is what? Go on.” 

He meets her eyes from across the room as he takes a sip. He slowly raises a brow. 

Her lips twitch. 

"Tidings from the battlefield aside," Alphinaud says after a beat, his gaze flickering curiously between the two of them. "You’ll be happy to know that we have some good news to share. Not only have we figured out means to safely secure the Crystal Tower once more—with G’raha’s assistance here, of course—Lord Aymeric sent word that Ishgard is well on its way on its next step to restoration. ” 

Mihren’s eyebrows fly into her hair. “You’ve been in contact with Aymeric?” 

“Well.” Alphinaud dips his head, sheepish. “Yes. In Estinien’s absence, he agreed to provide relevant updates as they come. And on that note—Lord Edmont has been asking after you.” 

She winces. “It has been some time since I checked in, hasn’t it? There’s been a lot going on... but I suppose I could go visit Ishgard for a bell. See how everyone is doing.”

“If I may,” G’raha gently interrupts. His tail twitches behind him as he asks, “Would it be possible that I join you?” 

“To Ishgard?” 

His ears flatten. “I understand if not, but—”

“G’raha. Please. Of course you can come. Just know that you might need a few more layers than that.” Her gaze slides back to Ardbert. There’s a mischievous spark hidden there—one he’s quickly growing familiar with. “And how are you with the cold?” 

“Better than you, I’d wager.” 

She blinks at him. He raises a single brow and vaguely gestures at the armor on him, then pointedly looks at her exposed legs. 

A light flush graces her cheeks as she bites her bottom lip. 

He feels a pleasant tug on his gut at the sight. 

“If we’re to make a trip of it, then perhaps I will come along as well,” Alphinaud says with a decisive nod. “It really has been too long. Though I need to remember where I left my warm coat...”

  
  


**iv. mihren**

Ishgard is, as expected, as cold as ever. The chill seeps through her coat and quickly turns her nose red. 

“Ah.” Alphinaud smiles and turns his head to the sky. “I have truly missed the crisp air here. Quite refreshing.”

“It’s better than the random humidity at Revenant’s Toll,” she chimes in agreement as Ardbert falls into step beside her. “That’s for sure.” 

G’raha, however, grimaces. “It’s… certainly biting. And it’s meant to get colder, you said?”

“It always gets colder. If it gets warmer, that means dragons are coming.” 

All three men stare at her.

“What? It’s true. Alphinaud, surely you’ve heard that before.”

“I... have not, actually.” His brows furrow in thought. “Though... I suppose it makes sense, given their element?”

Ardbert rolls his eyes and says, “She’s not being serious.”

She purses her lips. “How do you know? Fought a lot of dragons, have you?” 

He crosses his arms and gives her a droll look. She holds his gaze for several long seconds before deflating. 

"Fine, fine. He's right, the spoilsport. But to your question, G’raha—yes, it’s going to get colder."

G’raha hides a smile behind one hand at their antics. “Without any accompanying dragons, I would hope.”

Alphinaud merely shakes his head, but his eyes dance with amusement too. “In any case, we should be off. Lord Edmont is expecting us.” He takes a step, then pauses. “Ardbert, if you’d like to join us...?” 

Ardbert cranes his head to stare at the rising buildings. The wind kicks up and sweeps snow off a nearby roof. “I think I’ll explore on my own for a bit," he says, voice careful and even. "Get the lay of the land and all that.”

She rests an apologetic hand on his arm while Alphinaud and G’raha move ahead. “I promise I won’t be long. There’s a market to the left if you’re interested, and an inn straight ahead with a hunt board right outside. Perhaps you can find us a mark for later?”

He stares down at her for half a beat before agreeing with a half-hearted shrug. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Later, after apologizing and promising to do better at checking in, she leaves G’raha and Alphinaud with Lord Edmont, excusing herself to find Ardbert. 

As she sweeps through the stony alleys, crunching snow underfoot, worry gnaws at her gut. The cathedral looms above her, heavy and imposing, and the dark figure only frays her nerves further. Although change had come to Ishgard, friendly and welcoming to strangers it still was not.

What if he’d been pulled aside by an inquisitor?

Huffing, she picks up the pace and turns the corner.

And is nearly barreled over. 

The impact _hurts_ —enough to knock the wind out of her—and the snow doesn't help matters. She loses her footing, flounders (for the first time in _how_ long?), and nearly falls flat on her ass when arms snap out to steady her. Hands grip tightly at her waist, centering her, and she dully notices parchment flutter to the ground. 

She blinks. Lifts her head to find Ardbert staring down at her with the same surprised look, mere inches away. 

He recovers first and rocks back on his feet, then spares a quick glance over her shoulder as though expecting something giving chase behind her. "You alright? You were in a rush there."

“Huh?” Sense returns when he arches a brow. “Oh. I’m—Yes. I’m okay. I was trying to find you.”

“Worried I’d gotten lost?” 

“You’d be surprised at how easy that is here," she mumbles, ducking her head and patting down her coat. "Many parts of the city are still full of wreckage.” 

“So I’ve seen." He stares at her a moment longer, and she catches the brief flicker of hesitation as he pulls his hands back. His gaze slides past her again, at a pile of rubble and the skeleton of forgotten scaffolding, and the gesture feels a hint too deliberate that it snags her attention like a hook. 

“Why have they not gone about rebuilding yet?” he asks. “Looks awfully similar to when I was here last.”

“Oh, they’ve started. But it’s a long and delicate process, to say the least. Not to mention the sheer amount of repairs that need to be done.” She clears her throat, mildly distracted at how her skin tingles at where he’d touched her. “Were you able to find the hunt board?” 

"Aye, though I couldn't fully decide on which mark to take, being unfamiliar with the area and all."

"Well, that's simple. Just take them all."

His lips quirk. "And rob other adventurers of their bounty?"

"Please. There's more than enough to go around. And it's first come first served on these matters, you know." She sniffs and brushes some snow off her shoulder. Then, after a beat, she reaches up to brush some snow off his, too. 

“...Fair enough,” he says, remaining still but watching her hands. “But we may have to wait either way, since what you’re stepping on was the last notice on the board."

She gingerly lifts her foot. They both stare at the inky mess mixing with the snow. "You just said you had trouble choosing. Surely there's another mark for us to take?"

At that, Ardbert crosses his arms and refuses to look at her. She leans forward and tries to catch his eye, but he stubbornly refuses to meet it, and to her surprise his ears have gone red. 

Her eyebrows go up. 

He mutters something under his breath.

She blinks. "What?"

Ardbert groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I said I took too long. No, there aren't any more marks."

"...oh." After a beat, she just shrugs and steps forward to loop an arm through his. "That's fine. It’s probably best we don’t hunt in this weather anyway—the Skywatcher said there’s some terrible winds coming in. I’d say that’s a perfectly good excuse as any to go enjoy some drinks.”

He doesn't resist as she pulls him back the way he came—and her pulse flutters as he falls into step with her—but the downturn of his lips betrays his mood. "You're upset."

"I'm not."

"You are, don't lie. Next time you can choose—"

"Ardbert, I will drink you under the table if you keep talking like that."

He snorts. "Not in this world you won't. Or any other, for that matter."

She grins a smile full of teeth. "Prove it."

They slip into a pleasant camaraderie that’s wonderfully reminiscent of their time on the First. Still, she can’t help but note the strange tension to it, the subtle shift in the space between them, and she idly wonders if she’s picking up on something or merely imagining it. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They pick up another hunt nearly a week later.

The Dravanian Forelands are in the midst of a dust storm when she teleports the both of them to Tailfeather. 

“How is it,” she manages between coughs as they materialize, “that you don’t even blink at the ongoing chain of horrid weather we keep finding ourselves in?” 

Ardbert merely scrunches his nose and squints against the wind. “I’m used to it, is all. And—ow! What was that for?” 

“Just making sure you’re actually here,” she says as he rubs at his elbow. She takes a moment to re-tie her hair up in a tight bun. Having it down was a right recipe for disaster, and she can already feel bits of sand on her scalp. 

_That’ll be a fun time to wrangle with later_ , she thinks, clicking her tongue and tying the knot. A glance at Ardbert confirms her earlier remark: he stands with the poise of a marble statue, utterly unaffected by the gales or the tousled mess forming on his head.

She sighs and unfurls parchment from her pocket. “Okay, mister impervious. Our mark today is Thextera. Says here it's been harassing the hunters, scaring their chocobos, and running off with food."

“Sounds like a wolf,” he says, leaning over her shoulder to peer at the notice. “Or akin to one, at least.” A pause. “Why is it blue?” 

“It’s actually a bandersnatch. And I don’t know. Strange diet?”

“It’s a what?”

“A bandersnatch." She gestures idly with her hands. "You know. Thick mane, wicked sharp teeth? They have two really long fangs and tend to stalk before pouncing.”

“So it's a smilodon,” he concludes, brows furrowing. “Lots of those in Lakeland.”

“No. A bandersnatch. Smilodon is something different.” 

He stares at her. 

She stares back, expression serious. Then her lips twitch, giving way to her amusement, and they both burst out in snickers. 

“Don’t think I’ll ever get used to the nonsense names you people have here,” he says with a one-sided grin. “Bandersnatch. Really.” He shakes his head. “Where are they usually found?”

“Not sure. Why, you got an idea on how to go about this?” 

He tilts his head in thought. His eyes flicker to the outpost’s gate. “A handful, though this weather might make matters difficult.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


As they trek across the forelands in the shade of spindled trees, she trails a step behind him as much as possible without making it look obvious. If Ardbert notices he doesn’t comment, but after a while she begins to catch how he subtly angles his body to take the brunt of the wind. 

She bites down on her lip, and after a moment’s hesitation, decides to walk closer until their arms brush together. “Say,” she starts, watching the ground to avoid tripping over wayward rocks and rubble. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Never a good sign when you seek permission first. But go on.” 

“Can you tell me about your friends?”

His lips thin. “Didn’t you learn enough about them on the First, what with all the sin eaters you’d faced?"

“Ardbert,” she says, mild. “You know what I mean. The Echo isn't the same.” 

He keeps his eyes fixed ahead, alert for enemies, and with the way his face remains carefully blank she wonders for a moment if she'd crossed a line. But then, voice near lost in the wind, he asks, “Which one?"

She hums in thought as they step onto another well-beaten path. “Well... what about Lamitt? I know of her story, sure, but what about your adventures together? She strikes me as someone who did well at keeping you in line.” 

Ardbert chuckles, but it’s low and subdued. “Kept me out of death and ditches, more like. Not a moment went by when she wasn’t fussing over the lot of us—at least when whatever it was wasn’t self-induced. She had a temper to match the worst of them when it came to the bizarre situations we would find ourselves in.”

Mihren sniffs as she hops up to balance on a line of uneven stones, walking elevated beside him. “Healer after my own heart. Knew I liked her for a reason.” 

“Once,” Ardbert continues with a fond smile, “she’d left the four of us to wrangle with an entire tomb of undead on our own. Just walked up and out the moment they began rising from the dirt.” 

“Why?”

“Because I’d touched a relic she said not to. Moments after the fact, of course.” 

She tilts her head back to laugh at that, and in her mirth missteps on the line of broken stones. Her hands snap out for balance, and immediately latch onto Ardbert’s arm like a vice when he offers it.

“Oh.” She smiles down at him when she finds solid footing. “Well, that was close. Thank you.” But she doesn’t let go, and he doesn’t pull away, and for a moment her world narrows in on the soft blue of his eyes.

“I think,” she says softly, “that I would’ve liked to meet her. In those simpler days.”

Ardbert stares up at her, at the way she clutches at his arm. Warmth jets through her veins when his expression softens. “Aye. I think she would’ve liked to meet you too.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


By the time they find themselves at the entrance of a massive cave, her hair pulls tightly on her scalp, her skin is covered with a thin layer of dust, and that there’s more than a handful of pebbles in her boots. 

Ardbert, meanwhile, looks entirely unruffled. 

She huffs and palms at her eyes. “Are you sure this is the right place this time?”

“Think so.” He grunts as he pushes at a half-broken pillar blocking the way. “The tracks lead here and it’s near where most of the sightings were reported.” 

She appreciates the taut line of his body and how his armor clings to him as he struggles for a whole half second before frowning again. “But the entrance was nearly covered. How’d it fit through?” 

“They can climb, can’t they? I don’t know. Help me clear this out, would you?” 

“You want me to move those giant boulders?”

He rolls his eyes and exhales sharply, then gestures at the rubble he’s trying to push. “I’d like to see some effort on your part, in the least.” 

“Stand back then.” 

Ardbert shoots her a flat look, then notices the flickers of bright aether kick up at her feet, and the irritation fades once he catches on to her intent. He steps back while she breathes in, grabs at her cane with both hands, and waves it in the direction opposite him. Rocks and rubble soar in line with the motion, creating loud splashes in the small lake beside them.

Ardbert stares as they sink into the water. “Why didn’t you do that earlier?”

She gives him a sly smile. “You didn’t give me a chance to.” 

He reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, then turns to peer into the cave. While the entrance is narrow, letting in little light, the inside appears to loom, with a ceiling that stretches on and on until the lines of the wall disappear into darkness. Paired with the overcast dust storms, it's near impossible to get a clear sense of what’s inside. 

Something in her stirs painfully—a warning or the familiar thrashing of an old fear? Sometimes she can’t tell the difference.

“Ardbert,” she warns when he takes a step and grabs his axe. “It’s pitch black in there.” 

“I won’t go far.”

“Please? I’m getting a bad feeling.” 

He ignores her and steps further into the cave, until she can barely see the outline of his back. She waits, gripping her staff until her knuckles turn white. He pauses for a moment, head tilted as if listening, and alarm bells go off in the back of her head. She immediately sends aether tendrils at him, wraps them around his body like vines, and yanks him back outside just as a giant pair of teeth snap at the place his head had just been at. 

His feet leave a trail in the dirt as he skids to stop right before her. She places a firm hand on his back to steady him, and they both stare as the darkness gives way to massive, purple archaeosaur. 

Its red eyes gleam at them.

She catches traces of blue fur hanging from its mouth.

“So,” she says, adjusting her grip on her cane. “That doesn’t look like a bandersnatch to me.”

Ardbert’s eyes light up. He slowly grins.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


In hindsight, that they stumbled upon a hunt marked as an ‘A’ instead of the ‘B’ they’d signed up for felt fitting. It isn’t the cleanest of encounters, what with the dust constantly in her eyes, but she barely needs to lift a finger as Ardbert all but fells the beast on his own. 

_Warrior_ , she thinks fondly, watching as a well-timed strike of the axe kicks up dirt and sends a burst of aether that staggers the archaeosaur. No wonder he looked happy at the opportunity to fight a large beast. 

She remains off to the side, throwing out heals as necessary and yanking him to safety when the sharp teeth stray too close. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"Anyway,” she says once the mark is slain, slicing off and storing some scales for proof of kill. “We should head back. Wouldn’t want to be caught out here past dark."

Ardbert takes a moment to stretch, rolling his shoulders and raising his arms. The dust storm had cleared up near the tail end of the fight, and the dark sleek of his armor glints as it catches the last few rays of light. A light pop reaches her ears as he rolls his neck. 

He gives a satisfactory sigh. "That’s better.” 

She hides a smile behind her hand. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I did. Except the inn back at town looked full before we left, so that might be a lost cause. Is there a holiday going on?"

"No, it's that restoration process I mentioned before. They’re rebuilding part of the city." She frowns as they leave the corpse behind, and gingerly steps over a large gash he’d made in the ground. "You've been staying at inns?"

"And Revenant’s Toll, at times."

She chews on her lip, then hedges, “I have a home in the Mist. It's a residential area near Limsa Lominsa. You’re welcome to stay there anytime, if you'd like."

He stops on the grass and blinks at her. "You’re inviting me to your home."

"Yes." She stops a beat ahead of him. "Is that a bad thing?"

He looks away then, and even in the low-light of dusk, she catches the slight tint to his cheeks. 

Understanding dawns on her. 

"Ardbert," she says slowly, trying to suppress a grin. "How many times did you visit me at my room in the Pendants?"

He sputters. "That was different!"

"Was it?"

"I was a shade. Not a..."

Her grin widens when he trails off and glances away again, deliberately looking at anything but her. She takes a step toward him, leaning forward and trying to catch his eye. "Not a what?"

The tips of his ears blaze red. "It wouldn't be proper, is all I'm saying."

"Didn't take you as a stickler for propriety. Should we get married first, then?"

His eyes widen and his mouth goes lax as he stares at her, and for a moment she wonders if she's accidentally broken him. But then his gaze narrows at her in accusation. "You’re enjoying this."

She bites down another smile. "Quite." 

He groans and stomps right past of her, crunching gravel under his feet. His cheeks are still flushed when he sweeps by, and warm affection blossoms through her at how endearing it looks. 

She rushes to catch up with him. "Okay, okay—I'm sorry for teasing. But I mean it when I say you're welcome. My sister is away, and it's a big house. I would appreciate the company."

The pink tint remains, but his pace slowly starts to accommodate hers. "You've a sister? How come I've never heard of her?"

"She travels as much as I do. We catch up when we can, but you know how it is." She folds her arms behind her back and tilts her head to stare up at the darkening sky. "We also don't advertise the relationship. For obvious reasons."

Ardbert frowns heavily, pace slowing even further. "She doesn't visit."

"Not as much as either of us would like, no. So I mean it when I say that company would be nice." She hazards a glance at him, and finds his brows furrowed in thought. The blush is gone at least, so she hopes he's at least considering it.

"Alright," he eventually says, but there’s a resigned note to it, as if he just agreed to take a teraflare to the face. "You’ve a guest room, I assume?"

"Of course.” She pauses. “And you can count on me to protect your virtue. I promise that the ladies in the neighborhood will be kept at bay." She accentuates it with a soldier’s salute.

He rolls his eyes. "I should’ve let you battle the mark instead. Mayhaps it would’ve eaten you and saved me some headaches."

"Hey!"

**v. ardbert**

Weeks pass. 

He settles into a routine. 

When not under the crushing weight of nostalgia and the lethargic melancholy at the thought of Norvrandt and all he left behind, he accompanies her to regions of Eorzea, and she tells him of the land, of its history, and of her own anecdotes whether he asks for them or not. 

“The cactus drink here will make you see double,” she tells him in a small town at the edge of Thanalan, wiping dirt off her nose. He raises an eyebrow, and she laughs. “Don’t ask me how I know. It was... a miscalculation, on my part. Let’s call it that.” 

“Now you have to share with a comment like that. Don’t leave me in suspense.” 

She smacks her lips together. “Mm, nope. You’d never look at me the same way again.” 

He snorts. “You’ll tell me one day.” 

“Probably,” she allows, easily. “I’m not really good at keeping secrets. But I’m not denting your respect for me today, at least.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


In the Black Shroud, he catches her walking with her eyes closed and a gentle smile on her face. “You’re going to trip over something, walking about like that.” 

She just smiles wider. “Will not.”

“What are you doing, anyway?”

“Just getting a feel for the aether here. It’s always... louder. More lively around Gridania. And I’d rather not cast something around another grumpy elemental again. Nearly started a forest fire one time.”

He shakes his head and vaults over a fallen log. “You’re going to make me resort to the Echo to see these stories of yours, aren’t you?” 

“Ha. Only if you want to be scared of trees for the rest of your life.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


In Coerthas, he learns that despite her constantly bemoaning the weather, she’s oddly unaffected by the cold. 

She’d worn a long, woolen coat over her usual coatee for their trek through the mountains, but he keeps catching glimpses of her skin as they walk and his gaze flickers back to her legs despite his best efforts. 

A skirt, of all things. In this biting weather. 

The curiosity eventually outweighs the worry. 

“Aren’t you cold?” 

“Hm?” She blinks and stops before him, tilting her head. “No. Why? Are you?”

He stares down at her. 

She stares back, expectant. Snow dusts their shoulders, settles on their hair. The woods behind them are quiet in that way winter is, where anything above a hush feels too loud in the space between. 

He wonders if she can hear his pounding heart.

‘Your legs are exposed’ sounds like the wrong thing to say. He can immediately hear the teasing sure to follow. 

‘You’re not wearing much’ feels like an even worse thing to say, and he swiftly stomps down on that trail of thought before his ears turn red and give him away. 

Then a familiar glint appears in her eye and her lips curl up, and he knows he’s taken too long to explain himself. 

He huffs and sweeps past her, crunching snow underfoot. “Nevermind. Forget I said anything.”

She just giggles behind him, and despite the heat rushing to his cheeks, he feels a slight smile tug on his mouth regardless. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


For all their travels, however, the shores of La Noscea continue to weigh on his heart. The longing in his eyes as he stares at the city of Limsa Lominsa must shine too obvious, because she merely rests a hand on his arm and says, “Let’s keep moving.” 

He can’t stop the relieved sigh that escapes his lips.

She tugs him along. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He remembers what it was like once, ages ago, when he could do this without the responsibilities linked to his titles and the expectations of an entire nation biting at his heels. Without memories chained like manacles around him, hindering every step. 

He remembers when he could do this as a person and not a shade, and appreciate the joys of wandering with a companion. 

He remembers, and for the first time in a long time, he feels a familiar flicker of hope and a yearning that makes his heart ache.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Every so often, when the inns grow lonely and he wants to avoid the prying, but well-meaning prodding of the Scions, he returns to her home in the Mist. It still feels odd whenever he does so, and he can’t help but hesitate on the entry mat despite the explicit invitation offered him. 

“The chances of anything attacking you in here are slim to none, you know,” she says one night as he passes through the foyer. “I promise all of the dangerous artifacts are under tight lock and key.”

He stops and stares at her. She’s reclined in a comfortable reading nook by the corner, backlit by warm lamplight and surrounded by pillows. 

“Slim?” he repeats, dry. “Meaning there is a chance, then?” 

“Maybe.” She lifts her book a bit higher to hide a smile. “But it’s nothing you couldn’t handle.” 

He shakes his head, exasperated but not at all surprised. And yet, affection courses through him as he climbs the stairs to the guest room. He doesn’t know how she does it—how she lightens the room and pulls the tension from him with barely an effort. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Eorzea is not home.

But, as he lays in a bed far softer than any he’s ever been in and stares at the darkened ceiling, he begins to think—it could be one. 

He idly wonders when his feelings on the matter had begun to shift.

  
  
  
  
  
  


In truth it feels like a dream sometimes that he’s here, walking about like another common adventurer. The lift off his shoulders is so refreshing that at times he worries this is all just another delirious form of escape his mind concocted from decades of aimless wandering. 

So as he rests his arms on a stone half-wall in the Mist, mere yalms from the shore, he can’t help but ask, “Is it always like this?” 

She pauses mid-chew, blinking down from her perch beside him. “Hm?” 

The sight of her in the midday sun, dressed in light, casual clothes and hair free in the wind somehow eases the ache in his chest. “Careful,” he says with a slight smile. “Or you’ll choke.” 

She shoots him a look and quickly finishes the rest of the dried fish, then rubs her hands against her shorts. “What, you mean hot and sunny? If so, then yes. The costs of owning a home here are rather high for that very reason. The cove is supposed to feel like a private paradise.”

He snorts. “No, though that’s—wait, what?” 

He casts a startled glance over his shoulder at the house on the hill, then swivels back to stare at her. She purses her lips.

“My family is—was—from Ul’dah,” she says before he poses the question, eyes fixed stubbornly on a small isle in the distance. “And Ishgard long, long before that. We’re from a long line of crafters and it… it added up over time.” 

He blinks. “So I’ve been travelling with a rich person.” 

“Mm.” 

He blinks again. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she mumbles, rubbing at her arm. “I’m an adventurer, too.”

“A rich one, at that.” A slow, sharp grin spreads across his face. “So, then. Do you have a line of retainers at your beck and call? Should I expect an Ishgardian suitor to come calling? Perhaps a—”

She shoves at him. He snickers and barely budges an inch, far beyond used to it now. "Sorry, sorry,” he says. “Couldn't resist."

"I'm about to 'not resist' pushing you into the sea, is what," she mumbles, and he catches the faint tint to her cheeks. "Arse."

He bites down another fond smile. “I meant everything else. It seemed like there were over a dozen matters to deal with when I first arrived, yet now it’s…”

“Slow?” she supplies. 

“Relaxed, more like.”

She gently swings her legs. “I’ll admit that this lull is a bit unusual. But after saving two worlds I think we’re both due for a break, don’t you think?”

He leans on his elbows and stares as the waves crash and sweep ashore, spreading foam across the sand.

Thinking of Norvrandt still hurts. But it feels more like a scar now or a fading bruise—a dull, steady throb, and less of a bleeding wound.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Time crawls forward. 

He's not entirely sure how he ends up roped into an expedition to the skies—especially when Thancred and Mihren bicker like an old married couple mere feet before him. 

"This is entirely unnecessary," Thancred huffs, one hand resting on the railing. "Not to mention a waste of both our times." 

"You need the exercise, old man. Or need I remind you how you nearly collapsed while carrying Urianger?" 

"From aether sickness! And it was the one time. I am entirely fine here, I assure you." 

"Uh huh." She waves him off and turns the airship a degree left. "Still. I haven't seen you leave Mor Dhona in weeks. And the outskirts don’t count!" 

Thancred gives her a particularly flat look. "And you've been at the Rising Stones the entire time, have you? Watching my every step?" 

"Well, no. But Krile has. And you know what she'll say if I tell her—" 

Thancred groans. "Fine, fine. As you say." Then, to Ardbert’s surprise, the man throws him an exasperated look over his shoulder as though he can relate. 

Ardbert raises a brow from his spot against the wall as if to say, _and what do you expect me to do? Not like she listens to me either._

“Plus,” Mihren continues brightly, completely missing the exchange behind her back, “you will both get something out of this. I promise it’s not just a stroll through ruin and rubble.” 

“A scenic tour through the laboratories, then? Filled with questionable experiments and who knows what sorts of age-old traps?” 

“Thancred. I won’t hesitate to throw you off this airship.” 

“And a small mercy that would be,” the man mumbles under his breath. He sighs and gestures at her. "Well, go on. Don’t leave us in suspense.” 

She tinkers with the airship’s wheel a second longer, then whirls on them both, hands on her hips like a sergeant about to give out orders. Her hair flies wildly about her face in the high altitude. She squints against the wind, sweeps a calculating gaze up and down Thancred, then gives Ardbert the same treatment. He stares back at her, waiting for whatever proclamation she’s sure about to make. 

An odd feeling sits in the pit of his stomach as she scrutinizes him. The playful dynamic he just witnessed before him is near identical to their own ribbing. 

He can’t help but frown and wonder if he’s been misreading things. Something in him twists painfully at the thought. 

She reaches some sort of conclusion then, and nods. “I’m getting you both new weapons.” 

“Why?”

“Don’t need it.”

Both men speak at the same time, then turn to look at each other. 

She grins a smile full of teeth.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Azys Lla is huge. 

Azys Lla is floating, and metallic, and strange. 

He doesn’t know where to look first. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“This all belonged to the Allagans?” he asks in awe, craning his head to stare at some sort of metal fortress at the center of it all. It pulses green as though alive, with spine-like chains jutting out and anchoring to nearby floating islands. 

Mihren hops over some rubble beside him. “It did. Their Empire spanned... I’m not sure how far, actually, but it included all of Eorzea at one point. This place,” she waves her hand in a grand gesture, “served as a prison of sorts as well as a laboratory.”

“I’m certain you can imagine what resulted from a combination like that,” Thancred chimes in, sparing him a glance. “So be on your guard.” 

Mihren nods. “The bright side is that everything here either stomps like a giant, smells worse than a rotting corpse, or glows bright enough that you can see it approach from malms away. So surprises shouldn’t be on the list of things we encounter. Not those kinds, anyway.” 

“What’s the giant hole at the bottom there?” he asks, pointing. 

She follows the line and squints. “Oh. That was… Sephirot, I think. Maybe Zurvan? It’s been too long. Though definitely not Sophia—she never had attacks that dramatic. Those three were known as the Warring Triad, a group of primals the Allagans had captured. Prison, like I said.”

Something in him wrenches defensively. _I’ve never faced a primal with anyone else,_ he remembers her saying. 

“What?” she asks when he just stares at her. “They’re dead now. No need to worry that something’s going to come crawling out of there. Well, nothing at a primal’s level, anyway.” And then she keeps moving forward as though that’s all the explanation needed.

Thancred falls into step with him as she blazes towards another lit platform. “Easy to forget what she’s capable of when she acts like that, isn’t it?” 

“At times,” Ardbert hedges, even as his gut churns with unease. “Though she makes you remember just as quick.” 

Thancred snorts. “Spoken from experience, I’m sure.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They set out to find tomestones. 

He doesn’t recognize half of the monsters they fight—some owl-bear abomination, various sorts of lizards, chimeras, clockwork soldiers and spiders. They all fall to his axe regardless, but he stops being surprised at the absurdities by the fourth go-around of strange combinations. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“I really think we should head inside,” Mihren says later, wiping her brow as they thrash another clockwork soldier. She nods at the giant fortress in the middle of Azys Lla. “I’ve been there several times but there’s always something new to be found.” 

“This isn’t enough?” Thancred asks, lifting the hemp sack they’ve been storing tomestones in as emphasis. “Feels rather heavy to me.” 

She gives him a blank look. “Thancred. You’ve met Rowena. What do you think?” 

Thancred pauses. His gaze flickers to the bag, then back to her. A moment passes, and he closes his eyes as if in pain.

Ardbert doesn’t know who Rowena is. He gets the feeling he doesn’t want to. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“‘Exhibit three’,” Thancred reads. “‘Feast your eyes on this massive-yet-elegant automaton.’ Well, that sounds promising.”

Mihren hums and says, “I already took care of that. We should be fine.” And confidently strides past both of them despite the countless containment cells—some with very obvious fractured glass—surrounding their group. 

He shares a glance with Thancred. They fall into step beside her, each covering a side. 

“Say,” Thancred starts casually as they pass through another exhibit-like room, filled with blinking automatons. “Remember our time in Dohn Mheg?” 

Mihren squints at a clockwork soldier with four arms. “Mhm?” 

“And your foray with the bees?” 

She stops short and winces. “...I’m doing it again, aren’t I?” 

“You are.” Thancred passes by her with a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. “I’m glad we could clear that up.”

Ardbert chuckles at the memory as he strides past her as well. “You mean when she ran half across the field, only to turn tail mere moments later?” 

“Indeed.” Thancred raises a brow and spares him a sidewards glance. “I keep forgetting you were there to see it.” 

"Hard to forget a spectacle like that."

Mihren groans softly behind them. “I suddenly regret putting the two of you together.” 

But she doesn’t rush past either of them again. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They’re stopped, of all things, by a massive containment door. Wide green tubes lead out of it, filled with a viscous liquid, and the entire hallway is tinted orange as if alight with fire. The air tastes stale on his tongue and the smell of ancient science, caustic and heavy, sticks in his nose. A strange feeling crawls down his spine, and he gets the impression they're being watched. 

“What do you think is inside?” she asks, idly tapping her toe against the floor. 

Thancred sighs and crosses his arms. “Something we would do well not to disturb?” 

“Can you open it?”

“Do I look like an Allagan expert to you?” And yet despite the question, he still walks towards an old terminal to the left of it like he meant to all along. It sputters before blinking to life, and Thancred’s brows furrow in concentration as he pokes at the flickering screen.

Ardbert half turns to keep a wary eye fixed on the hallway behind them. 

Mihren, meanwhile, slides up to his side and nudges him with an elbow. “Say. When is your nameday?”

He blinks down at her in surprise. 

She gestures with her palms toward the ceiling, as if she knows how out of the blue it is and doesn’t care. “Serious question. I enjoy throwing celebrations for my friends and yours is the only one I still don’t know about.” 

When did he last celebrate his nameday? Over a hundred years ago? More? He doesn’t remember.

He tilts his head back at the pulsing blue ceiling and frowns, brows pinched together in thought. “Ah…ninth sun of the Sixth Umbral Moon, I reckon. If the calendars line up here, at least." 

“You don’t remember?”

He gives her a subdued smile. “I've had little reason to celebrate it over the many years. Got to a point where I simply stopped counting, not to mention caring."

Her face falls. “I’m sorry if that—” 

Thancred spits out a curse from their left and jerks back as the terminal crackles with electricity. A puff of smoke wheezes from it, a last heaving breath, and the entire thing fizzes out. 

A low rumbling fills the hall as the door begins to ease open, with hissing air rushing past and bringing a foul stench with it. Silence settles in the hallway as the dust settles. 

Mihren rubs at her nose and fails to muffle a sneeze. It echoes off the walls like a coin dropped into a well. 

Six pairs of eyes slowly crack open, blink once, then fixate on them from the darkness. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It’s a giant chimera. Augmented with fractured blue armor. 

Because of course it is. 

He and Thancred rush in first, gaining the attention of its heads. Out of the corner of his eye he spots Mihren taking post some distance away, aether already gathering at her feet. 

“On your left!” Thancred yells from behind him, and Ardbert immediately raises his axe to block. Sparks fly as the dragon head snaps at him, charged with electricity, raising the hair on the back of his neck. He grits his teeth, feet skidding back as he strains to keep it from reaching his face. 

A flare of light bursts from his left and sears into the head. It reels back, hissing as its scales sizzle. Thancred sweeps past him in the next breath, just in time to parry the ram head from sinking its teeth into Ardbert’s back. 

“Never liked these much,” Thancred notes casually as he takes a stance beside him. “I assume you know what to do if its eyes start to glow?” 

Ardbert grunts and readjusts his grip. “Make sure they don’t?”

“Indeed. You take left, I’ll take right?”

He answers by charging at it. 

They manage to find a rhythm—one parries, the other lands a strike. Soon the beast is covered in gashes and bullet holes, and Ardbert wonders just what sort of experiments had been done to it to make it so damn resilient. 

“Allagans,” Thancred mutters beside him, thumbing another round of cartridges into his gunblade. “Never could leave well enough alone.” 

Ardbert can’t help but agree, and shifts to charge again when warm, familiar aether tendrils wrap around him. He recognizes it half a second in and plants his feet just in time to be yanked back by Mihren. Thancred flies back right alongside him, biting back another curse. 

“Now is not the time to—” Thancred cuts off when he notices the bright glow of her cane. She raises it with one hand, takes a deep breath, then slams the butt of it on the floor. Blue aether explodes out, snaking through cracks along the floor and up along the walls until it reaches the ceiling like a sprawling web. 

A low rumble fills the room.

The ceiling groans once, twice, then caves in on itself and buries the chimera in rubble. Rocks and debris sit atop the cracked blue-green flooring before them, and a glowing, cavern-like environment is revealed above. 

Mihren exhales as the dust settles. When both men turn to look at her, she tilts her head and lifts a finger to point up. “There was a deposit of earth crystals above us. Didn’t take much to get them to…well, drop. Figured you both wouldn't want to have that fall on your heads.” 

A beat passes. 

Thancred sighs and rolls his shoulders. “That’s one way to end a battle, I suppose.” 

Ardbert spares one last sweeping glance at the pile of rubble before them just to ensure the beast is truly dead. It doesn’t so much as twitch under his scrutiny, and he eventually exhales as well. 

He glances at the gaping hole above them, and notices something flickering red. He frowns. “Those bits of red, sticking from the wall there. Looks akin to what we’ve been searching for, doesn’t it?”

Thancred follows his line of sight. “Well. Would you look at that?”

"Ha!" Mihren jumps up behind them in glee. "Take that, Ironworks! I knew this place wasn't empty yet!"

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Later, as the two men sit on the stone terrace overlooking the aetheryte plaza in Mor Dhona and wait for Mihren to return from whatever deals she sped off to make, he mulls over their trip. 

Thancred lounges across the table from him, feet propped on a nearby chair, arms crossed and chin dipped forward as if he'd fallen asleep on the spot. 

Ardbert knows better. He considers the man, then says, "You used to wield daggers before."

"So I did. Still do, when necessary."

"That's not a rogue's weapon you wield now, though. Why the change?"

Thancred cracks an eye open. Ardbert meets the measured stare with one of his own. 

He recalls the way the man had interrupted the onslaught he and his friends had brought on the small group of Scions all that time ago. When, while the others had waited for the first move and asked questions, Thancred had wasted no time stepping in at the first sign of danger. How, as he trailed the group all through Norvrandt, Thancred had always been the first to rush in and redirect a sin eater's attention away from the group. 

It takes a certain type of person to put themselves in harm’s way, Ardbert knows. To take the blows meant for someone else. And so despite the hostility they faced each other with in the past, he feels a grudging respect for the man. 

He wonders if Thancred comes to a similar conclusion, as he eventually grunts and shifts to get comfortable.

"It wasn't what was needed at the time," Thancred says, shrugging. "Knowing how to kill things is all well and good, but only gets you so far when you've people to protect behind you. Though that's something I figure I don't need to explain to you."

"No," Ardbert says, quiet. "It's not."

And for a moment, he can remember the same sentiment expressed by Branden once—that killing and protecting were two different skills.

He wonders, not for the first time, what his friends would think of his new companions if circumstances were different. And he thinks, with a distant wistfulness, that in another life they all could have been good friends. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


A commotion from the stairs eventually snags their attention. A loud bang echoes from the hallway. 

They both stare as Mihren emerges from the threshold. She balances a massive, intricate double-edged axe wrapped in protective cloth over her shoulder, with both hands gripping the handle to keep it steady. A gleaming, polished gunblade rests tied to her hip. Compared to the usual cane on her back, the two new additions make her look comically small.

She approaches them with a wide grin. "Brought you both something special from Gerolt.” 

Adorable is not a word he’d ever thought he’d use for her, but dwarved as she is by the weapons clearly meant for them? He can’t help but think it. 

His gaze softens as she takes careful steps towards them. And this time, when his stomach flips at the way she smiles brightly at him with the familiar teasing glint in her eye, he thinks he might know why.

**vi. mihren**

The first time she dreams of his death, she jolts up in a cold sweat and nearly vomits over the side of the bed. Her breath comes out in short gasps as she hangs at the edge, dry heaving and shaking like a leaf, with eyes unfocused and cloudy at the carpet below her. 

He is just down the hall, she knows. Down the hall, asleep in the guest room she’d prepared, safe and within reach. 

Far from anything that can harm him.

She knows this. 

She knows this because she has always felt his presence keenly, and his absence more so, and right now she can feel him only a few rooms down just as surely as she can feel her heart beating in her chest. But the vivid imagery of the dream sears into her mind like a brand and refuses to leave no matter how hard she tries to blink it away. 

Sleep is a fool’s errand, after that. She eases from the bed with a sigh and quietly pads down the hall, down the stairs, and stops for just a moment to half-heartedly tie on the straps of some sandals before slipping through the door. 

The Mist is quiet as she steps onto the gravel outside, with lamps and lanterns twinkling in the darkness like a mosaic of stars. Humidity hits her face, but it’s a cool enough night that the sensation is pleasant. 

She follows the stone path down to the pier.

As she gets comfortable and trails her toes along the lukewarm water, waiting for her pulse to settle and the acid taste of bile to leave her mouth, the hair on the back of her neck stands up. 

Her eyes slide closed. 

Of course he knew. And even though his footfalls are near silent on the wood as he approaches, she can tell exactly where he is. Idly, she wonders if he can feel her like she does him—if he can also pick her out in a crowd blindfolded. 

Ardbert settles beside her, close enough that their legs touch, and shifts until his feet are also hanging off the edge. The water laps at his ankles as low tide pulls the sea out and into the night.

She waits and lets the warmth of his body beside her soothe her pulse into a steady lull. "I'm sorry if I woke you. I tried to be quiet.” 

He shakes his head. “Bad dream?” 

"Something like that.” She doesn't lift her gaze from the darkness of the sea. It yawns before her, endless, and she catches the faint twinkle of lights from a passing, distant ship. “The Echo isn't always the gift people think it is. Tends to come at the worst of times."

He grunts in agreement and leans back on his palms. "Don’t I know it. I can't tell you how many times I'd nearly lost my head because of it."

She tries not to think about how she’d nearly died at Zenos’s hand. Because of G’raha, she knows, and not the Echo—but the comparison is similar enough that she draws the connection anyway. 

Zenos had no place here, not in this moment. She squashes the thought of him. 

"It’s more than just memories for me,” she says. “Or the feeling that something’s wrong. Sometimes when I sleep I get… visions, I guess. Vague notions of the future. Impressions of events and people and a horrible sense of foreboding to go with it all."

He raises a brow, and she can't tell if he's impressed or skeptical in the dim light of the lantern behind them. "Do they come true?"

"Sometimes.” The word tastes like ash on her tongue. “Sometimes it's just a dream. I never know which is which until it happens."

"Must be maddening."

She laughs softly. It carries along the shore like a shrine maiden’s bell. "It is at times. But sometimes it's a relief when nothing happens. I usually hope for that. More often than not it’s something mundane, too."

He pauses for a moment. "What did you dream of?"

She hesitates then, fearful as though giving voice to it will make it happen. The fact that they're both here, sitting in the darkness in the dead of night is enough of a hint that what she saw was nothing good. 

He sighs when she refuses to elaborate, but doesn’t seem overly concerned with her silence, and instead lays back against the pier, crossing his arms to pillow his head. 

"Doubt I have much sway over fate's choices,” he eventually says. “Or destiny, or what-have-you, but I can guarantee I'll do my damned best to get a word in."

A fond smile pulls at her lips even as her heart gives a painful pang. Of course he would. He never did any less. 

"We've fought a lot of things and won," she says and lifts her gaze to the stars. “Monsters. Ascians. Would-be gods. History itself, even—and won. Fate can line up behind them." 

She won’t lose him. She _won’t._

Ardbert smiles, but there’s a secret hiding behind it, and she gets a suspicious inkling that he's heard her thoughts. "Careful with those words," he murmurs. "You might tempt it."

She hums and lays next to him, crossing her fingers across her chest as the constellations turn above them. “It can try.”

It’d take nothing short of another calamity to take him from her.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
One month, a missive from House Haillenarte, and an airship flight later, she convinces him to join her at the Diadem. The thick, rolling aether slides along her skin like silk and sets off a trail of goosebumps as they fly closer to the floating isles. 

“Are you sure this is safe?” Ardbert asks, gripping the railing of the airship so tightly it's a miracle it doesn't bend under his strength.

She smirks and tilts her head back to enjoy the wind rushing through her hair. “Completely. But since it looks like the isles are in a state of levin right now, there’s sure to be some turbulence.”

“What?” 

“Oh, don’t look so worried. You were fine on the flight to Azys Lla! Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I think I left it on the ground,” he says roughly, eyes fixated on the flashes of lightning they’re heading directly into. “Along with my better sense and self preservation. You’re certain this is safe?” 

When his lips thin into a white line, the urge to reach out and reassure him strikes her with such force it makes her pause with uncertainty. But rather than smooth out the worry in his brow—which feels too intimate a gesture even for her—she instead slides over to link their arms together and rests a hand over his. “It will be fine, I promise. Do you trust me?” 

He holds her gaze. The taut line of tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease, but she feels his grip relax on the railing by an increment. Then the airship cuts through the clouds, stutters for a moment—during which she feels him freeze like a statue against her—and rights itself as they head for the landing.

They arrive without incident. 

But this is how she learns that Ardbert, who fights monsters three times his size for a morning’s exercise, is afraid of heights. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“What are we looking for?” 

She reads over the list she picked up at the Firmament, using one hand to keep her hair out of her face. “Anything we can get, really. Materials. Food. Rocks.”

“Rocks,” he repeats, flat.

She bites down a grin. “The ones here are different. And before you ask, no—they can’t gather freely past Coerthas, either. The Miners Guild from Ul’dah has their fingers in just about every pot and despite Ishgard’s grandeur they’re not in the best position to trade.”

He exhales and crosses his arms, standing just at the edge of the isle with the base camp. They’d both forgone their usual adventuring gear for a lighter set of cloth and leather—in his case—and something sturdy that included pants—in her case. And without the usual shoulderguards and layers of armor he wore, she can easily follow the hard lines of his body as he shifts in place.

He tracks the massive, floating crystals with his eyes as they hover around the central spiral, then sighs again.

“So,” he says, and when he turns around she scrambles to pretend like she wasn’t just oogling him. “How are we getting to the other isles?” 

“Well… we don’t have amaro here, but we do have chocobos that can fly when the situation calls for it.” 

“You’re going to make a chocobo fly in this weather?” he asks, incredulous. 

“I didn’t say that. Here, try this.” 

He eyes the intricate whistle she pulls from her pack. It sits unassuming in her hand, and she nudges it towards him once more when he doesn’t budge. He sighs. 

She laughs when he blows air through it and he leans back disappointed. It wasn't meant to make a sound that was special to their ears. “Just wait,” she says with an easy smile when he stares at her expectantly. 

It’s a moment before she hears the familiar sound of beating wings in the distance, and her smile widens when his eyebrows disappear into his hair at the sight of a pale, flying horse making a beeline straight for them. 

“It’s a pegasus,” she tells him when it flares its wings and lands near her. “There used to be a lot more of them around here, but I guess they’ve migrated to another cluster of floating isles. This one seems to always find me whenever I call, though.”

Ardbert moves to stand beside her, and after a moment’s hesitation, runs his hand down the pegasus’s neck. The awe in his eyes makes her smile widen, and her mount nickers and preens under the attention. 

“Were there any in the First before the flood?”

“Don’t know,” he says, thoroughly distracted by how the pegasus nudges at him. “Our adventures never took us to the sky. Not like this, anyway.” 

“You’re in for a treat, then. Do you want to lead, or should I?” 

“It can carry the both of us?”

“Mhm.”

He takes a step, then hesitates. “If you don’t mind…?” 

She encourages him forward with a gentle shove. He takes the hint with a soft huff and steps around the pegasus, mindful of its wings, then swings himself onto it. She grabs his offered hand and slides on behind him. 

“Not so bad now, right?” she asks, settling in and wrapping her arms securely around his middle. “Just be sure to hold onto the mane real tight.” 

The pegasus shifts beneath them, flaring out its wings and kicking up wind in its eagerness to move. Ardbert leans forward to fist both hands in its mane and spares her a glance over his shoulder. 

“Ready?” he asks. She spots the flicker of excitement across his face. 

She tightens her arms and rests her chin on his shoulder. “Whenever you are.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


In hindsight, they probably spend more time riding the air currents than gathering the items they need. 

Not that she’s complaining, really. 

She sorely hopes the pegasus is a thorough distraction from the way her pulse kicks up at being pressed flush against him. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


When they finally land on a distant isle to give the pegasus a break, Ardbert settles near the edge of it and she figures he’s gotten over his fear of the place. He leans back on his palms and exhales, the hint of a smile on his lips. 

“Having fun now?” she teases, coming to stand beside him with a hand on her hip. “I told you this place isn’t so bad.”

He snorts and glances up at her. “I’m more surprised that you’ve naught to say about this mad weather. Usually you’re the first to comment on such a thing.” 

“Only because nonsense weather is par for the course here. In fact, based on how it looks right now—” she takes a step closer and peers down at the swirling clouds, “—I’d say we’re due for some umbral wind soon.” 

Ardbert shifts in the corner of her eye. “You sure you want to be that close to the edge, then? If that’s the case?” 

She waves him off. “It’s fine. You always know when the change is coming, it’s never just—”

The pegasus behind them rears up on its hind legs with a whine and beats its wings. She feels the aether build and snap suddenly, like a boulder smacking a lake’s surface, before a gust of wind hits her straight in the back. The clouds around them shift to a startling green. 

She tips forward. 

“Mihr!”

Her stomach does a flip and hollows out as air roars past her ears. She flails, grasping for purchase that she won’t find, and her heart lodges itself in her throat as her vision tunnels at the empty, swirling clouds below her. 

Then hands are grabbing at her, wrapping tightly around her middle until a body is pressed squarely against her back, and she sees Ardbert’s wide eyes over her shoulder. 

She blinks, incredulous for a half a second before her brain kicks in. “Are you fu—”

Her screech is cut off as they’re hit with another aether current. It rocks them left, and when the vertigo passes and she catches sight of a nearby isle, relief floods through her. Wind roars past as it carries towards land and deposits the two of them at the base of the spiral crystal in an ungraceful heap. 

Ardbert’s back hits the ground and he hisses through his teeth, a sound that gets cut off when she lands on him shoulder-first. They both lay still for a moment, wide-eyed and panting as reality reasserts itself. 

Then she’s sitting on him, pulling him up by the front of his shirt and screeching. “Have you lost your mind?!”

“Me?” He barks, propped on his elbows. “You were daft enough to remain on the edge after I’d said to be careful!"

“So you decided to jump after me?!” 

“Only to teleport us both!” 

She blinks at him. “...Oh.” 

He stares at her a moment longer, then groans and falls back again, arms spread out and chest heaving as though he’d run a marathon. His eyes scrunch closed and he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I knew this place was a death trap. From the first moment, I knew. And still you refused to listen.”

She sits awkwardly on his lap, fingers still twisting the fabric of his shirt while he catches his breath, and is entirely unsure of what to do—especially when one of his hands comes to rest heavily against her hip, gripping her tight as if he’s reassuring himself. 

“Ardbert—” 

“We are going home. Now.” 

She bites her lip. "But—"

“ _Now._ ” 

She doesn’t complain as he taps into the aethernet and whisks them back to the Mist. 

They don’t visit the Diadem again. 

  
  


**vii. ardbert**

The trip leaves a sour taste in his mouth for a solid two weeks. Each time he tries to forget about it, he remembers the flash of panic that streaked across her face when she’d tipped forward. Remembers how his heart damn near stopped when he'd lost sight of her. 

The raw terror he’d felt in that moment resurfaces everything he’d slowly been forgetting—everything that, until now, he thought had begun to heal over. Memories roll through his mind like fog over a graveyard as he remembers all of the instances in which he could do nothing but stand to the side and watch as death took everything he’s ever cared about. 

And now this.

He grits his teeth and tries to stamp out the gnawing sense of dread. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“I see the thundercloud is still over your head,” is the dry greeting he gets when he runs into Alisaie at the Revenant’s Toll aetheryte. “No wonder we haven’t seen you.” 

He gives her a flat look and prepares to teleport. His patience is terribly short these days. 

Alisaie waves at him. “Hold on, hold on. I do have something to ask you.” 

He bites back a sigh and breaks his link to the aethernet. “What?” he asks, sharp.

“Care if I join you for a bell?” 

He stares blankly at her. 

She gives him a patient smile. “You’re not the only one who needs to blow off steam, and don’t think I haven’t noticed the suspicious lack of hunt marks on Clan Centurio’s boards. So. Can I join you, or not?”

He considers her a moment longer, then pointedly looks away. “Can’t promise I’ll be good company.”

“Then it’s a good thing that ‘good company’ isn’t what I’m seeking.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They burn through marks with terrifying efficiency. 

He loses track of time. 

Alisaie, for her part, doesn’t seem particularly worried about it either, which is how they find themselves in the Lochs just before sundown with a dead minotaur at their feet. 

He’s never faced one that turned its enemies into pigs, and the lack of foreknowledge led to a hilarious, albeit embarrassing moment in which he’d had to rely on Alisaie to keep the beast from chomping down on him like a meal. 

She snickers at him for a solid five minutes, laughter erupting from her each time she manages to get a handle on it, and eventually promises not to tell anyone about it. 

_For your reputation_ , she says, grinning like a cat with the canary. _It wouldn’t do for a blunder like this to get out, now would it?_

They both know it’s a lie, but the stress he’d been carrying around starts to ease in increments.

He never did do well when left alone. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“So,” Alisaie says later as they walk back towards Ala Mhigo, dusting off her shoulders in the shadow of the palace. “Let me guess. Our dear friend did something utterly reckless and stupid, and you’ve been left angry at both her and yourself.”

He exhales slowly through his nose. He’s not sure if he appreciates or dreads her confidence to cut straight to the heart of the matter. 

Alisaie sighs at his silence. “I should have known. And here the rest of us were worried the two of you had a spat over something terrible.” 

His lips thin. “She nearly got herself killed. Both of us, at that. I’d say that warrants some anger.” 

“Oh, of course. But if I can offer a word of advice?” She flicks her hair as they ascend the stairs into town. “If there’s anything I’ve learned from our years of friendship, it is that the world will throw life-or-death situations at her until one of them ends. Granted, my method of dealing with that isn’t much better than this,” —she jabs a thumb over her shoulder at the corpse they’d left behind— “but I will say that getting angry at her or trying to change her mind is naught but a fool’s errand.”

Ardbert snorts. 

“Though…” She considers him. “Truth be told, if anyone were to try and beat some sense into her, it would likely be you.”

"And you're encouraging this? After worrying that we'd had a disagreement?"

She sighs. "I'm only saying it because you're likely the only one capable of going toe to toe with her if the situation calls for it."

“Because the last time worked out so well,” he can’t help but say. Can’t quite keep the bite out of his tone.

"The last time, you'd threatened the lot of us." Her eyes flash and he understands intimately what she means: that Mihren would die before letting anyone lay a hand on the Scions. "If the matter up for debate were just her, however, I guarantee she’ll pull her punches.” She thinks a moment longer, then shakes her head. “But I digress. Either take my advice or don't, it makes no difference to me. Now, while we still have a bit of daylight left: what does the last hunt mark say?” 

He unfurls the other piece of parchment. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It is Tataru, of all people, who fully snaps him out of it nearly a day later. 

He opens the door to the Rising Stones and just about barrels her over in his inattention. His hands snap out to balance the crate in her arms seconds before it fully tips her over. 

“Sorry.” Then he pauses and just lifts the entire thing from her hands. “Where do you need this?” 

She stares up at him, wide-eyed, before blinking and gesturing behind him. “Thank you! It’s a shipment meant to be sent out to Kugane, actually. There’s a whole lot of them that need to be brought out.” 

He steps aside and follows her out the door. It’s sunny in Revenant’s Toll for once, and the harsh glare of the sun has him squinting the moment they walk outside. He’d ignored the caravan by the town’s northern gate when he first arrived, but he assumes the towering stack of crates is where Tataru’s been piling them. He sets the one in his arms beside the pile with a soft huff. 

Tataru gives him a smile when he turns around and jots something down in a ledger. “Thank you!”

He hesitates. “Want me to get the rest of them?” 

“If you’ve the time, then yes! I never turn down help when offered and it will get done much quicker with you.” 

"Just point me to them."

She does. He spends the next thirty minutes hauling crates from the storage room. The repetitive manual labor feels like a balm, and his mind slowly fades out of its roiling storm until all settles into a dull white noise. 

“It’s hard sometimes, isn’t it?” Tataru asks out of the blue. 

He knows that she's not talking about the shipments or the ledger. Still, he dusts off his hands and asks, “What is?”

"All of the worrying. And please—I recognized the look on your face the moment you’d walked in weeks ago. All of us did."

He tries not to sigh. They all mean well, he knows, but their well wishes and good intentions feel a tinge overbearing. "Tis why I've been elsewhere."

"We know. We also figured that is why we haven't seen hide nor hair of Mihren, either. Truly, I'm not sure which one of you is more keen to avoid the other! The Rising Stones is never quite this quiet." 

He keeps quiet, fixating on the low hum of the aetheryte beside them. 

She’s not deterred in the slightest. "As one of the few around here without any combat ability… all I can tell you is to take it day by day. Though I'm not saying to be unprepared! Just be sure to take a moment every now and then to take a step back and breathe, all right? You’ll go sick with worry otherwise. And—oh! Before I forget." She reaches into her pocket. "I had this made for you. Take it." 

He stares at the linkpearl sitting in her palm. The tiny ball shines, pale and iridescent, in the sun.

“It’s the line we use.” She prompts him again by extending her hand further. “For Scion matters.” 

"I'm... I’m not a Scion."

"Oh, come now. You are in every way that matters. Tis but a name, after all."

He bends to take the fragile device from her. It sits warm in his hand, smooth to the touch, and for a moment he's struck dumb with just how hard her declaration hits him. He swallows down the lump forming in his throat. 

“Thank you,” he says, voice rough. “I'll keep it on hand.” 

She gives him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “Be sure that you do! You never know when we’ll need you, because as I'm sure you've gathered, our fortunes tend to turn at a moment's notice. And we never turn away a helping hand.” 

That pulls a small smile from him. “I’ve noticed as much.”

“Lucky for us, we’ve become experts in rolling with the punches. And since you’ve agreed to the linkshell, I do have another present for you.” 

He blinks at her. 

“You’ll like it, I think. Follow me!” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Of all the things he expected, a new set of armor is not one. 

It’s lighter than his current gear with fewer bits of metal fastened to his limbs. The leather stitched into the shirt doesn’t offer nearly as much protection, and he doesn’t remember the last time he wore a set that left his arms exposed. The cloth undershirt hugs his body tight, but it’s not at all restricting, and he finds that it all fits him like a glove. 

“I know it’s not nearly as heavy as what you’re used to,” Tataru says, watching him roll his shoulders with the satisfaction of a crafter admiring their work, “but I guarantee it will offer you more mobility. And Eorzea gets quite hot during the summer! I thought perhaps this would suit you better—at least for the time being.” 

“It’s certainly lighter,” he says, inspecting the steel arm guards stitched onto the gloves. “But how did you get my measurements?” 

Tataru gives him a sly smile and wags a finger. “Now that, I’m afraid, would be sharing my secrets. But rest assured that I only ever use my knowledge for good.” 

He shakes his head, exasperated but charmed. “Thank you for this. It’s fine work.”

“Of course! Next time you see Mihren, can you please pass on that I have a gift for her too?” 

He ignores the subtle lance between his ribs. “If I see her.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


And then he runs into her at the Mist in a turn of events that is too convenient to be coincidence. The miniature aetheryte brings them both to the base of the front yard’s steps, at the exact same moment, and for a beat they just stare at each other, incredulous, barely a foot between them.

Then her gaze drops to her feet and she shuffles in front of him. "Hi."

He remembers to breathe. "Hi, yourself."

An awkward silence settles between them, but neither make any step to move off the grass and up the stairs. 

Waves crash against the rocks. A seagull cries far above them, and he hears the muffled sound of laughter rise up from the beach. He waits, one heartbeat at a time.

She fiddles with the hem of her shirt. "Are you still mad?"

"Depends. You still feeling reckless?"

She glances up at him through her lashes, shy, but with a familiar smile tugging at her lips. "Will my answer influence yours?"

He sighs then, and something in his expression must soften, because she bites her lip and takes a cautious step towards him. Hesitant, as though he might push her away, she wraps her arms around his middle and ducks her head under his chin in a loose hug. 

He freezes in place.

"I'm sorry," she finally murmurs into his shirt. "For worrying you. For taking you some place you didn't want to be. And for not listening, when I should have. You were right—I should’ve been more careful." The top of her hair tickles his chin as she turns her head. Then, in a voice so soft he nearly misses it: "I missed you. Please forgive me?"

All of the tension drains out of him at the faint tremor he catches in her voice. He'd missed her too. Gods, he'd missed her, and it was barely any time at all. 

His shoulders drop, posture going lax as the argument he’d been preparing for for days leaves him. Her skin is warm through the thin cloth of her shirt as he rests his hands gently on her waist, and she melts against him as he lightly kisses the crown of her head. And as she settles into the relief of his forgiveness, he wonders when it got to this point—where it feels like he'd forgive her for just about anything and when she’d become such a fixture in his day that her absence left such a notable gap. 

He wonders if she feels the same.

“By the way...” She pulls back a moment later and stares at his chest. “What are you wearing?” 

He just shrugs. “Tataru had a gift.” 

“Ah. She finally got to you, did she?” 

He watches as she takes in the new set, running her hands up his sides and tugging at the crisp, new straps of leather. Her eyes linger on his exposed arms a second too long, and he feels a teasing remark sit at the tip of his tongue. “Well?” 

She clears her throat and pats him on the shoulders. Goosebumps prickle along his skin at her touch. He ignores the way his stomach flutters.

“It looks good on you.” She pauses and tilts her head. “At least now I won’t have to worry about you falling over mid-fight because it was too hot. Don't know how you moved in all those layers before.” 

He snorts, and tugs her back to him. “Doubt it matters what I wear, considering how much effort it is to keep you out of trouble.”

She folds into him easily, loosely wrapping her arms around his waist again and nestling her head under his chin. His heart twinges at how right it feels, holding her like this. 

“Me?” she mumbles without any heat. “You’re the one charging in at a moment’s notice. How much effort do you think it takes to keep _you_ alive?” 

The familiar ribbing pulls a smile out of him. He hides it in her hair. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He starts to notice little details. 

The small twirl of her fingers when she casts spells. The skip in her step when she spots him in Mor Dhona. The way she bites her lip when thinking, and the light flush when she catches him looking. The way her eyes light up whenever she wants to share a story with him, and how she boldly leans into his space to get his attention. 

He notices how she adjusts to him, includes him in her routines with nary a word. How, in the early mornings when she’s called away and he indulges the time by sleeping in, there’s always a fresh pot of coffee waiting on the kitchen counter just the way he likes it—with a faint tint of aether wafting by it to keep it hot.

He doesn’t even remember telling her that he likes coffee.

The rhythm they fall back into feels so natural that it nearly tricks him into dropping his defenses. But there’s a familiar itch in the back of his head, reminding him that this is all temporary. 

This lull is unusual, she’d said. 

He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. But this time, as he waits for the future to go sour as it always does, there's no creeping dread associated with it. Instead, he settles into this period of waiting as one would prepare for war—with meticulous patience, a level head, and a steely determination to see it through. 

  
  


**viii. mihren**

"You need to learn self defense,” Ardbert tells her, completely out of the blue one day as they lounge about in her study. 

She stares blankly at him from across the room. He’s stretched out leisurely on a couch with one of her books in his hands—a primer on black magic, curiously enough—and glaring at it with such force it’s a wonder it doesn’t combust in his hands.

She waits a beat. "I know self defense. All of my magic is about self defense." 

“And if you're silenced?" 

"I’ll have you around." 

He pinches the bridge of his nose in a display of impressive patience. The spellbook comes down to rest against his chest, pages first. "For the times that you don't?" 

“Do you plan on disappearing for another week?” 

“Mihr.”

"I'll... beat them with my staff?" At his flat look, she rolls her eyes and refocuses on the ledger on her desk. "Ardbert, really. If it ever gets to a point where I need to rely on hand to hand combat and not magic, chances are there's little to be done anyway. I’m not built for close encounters, as you’ve said so before." 

“I know that." 

She glances back at him, at the worry knitting his brows as he stares up at the ceiling, and wonders just when she'd developed the inability to deny him anything. She puts the pen down and chews on her lip.

"...If it makes you feel better, I can try and learn how to use a melee weapon. But after I sort this out for Tataru. She told you about the matters she manages with the East Aldenard Trading Company, right?" 

Relief shines in his eyes. “She has.” 

“Perfect. How do you feel about seeing some of the world past Eorzea?” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


She’s never going to tire of his reactions to new sights. 

His eyes widen the moment they arrive at Kugane’s aetheryte plaza, even as it takes a minute longer for him to fully settle at the sheer distance travelled. It’s not a place he’s attuned to, and she had to put special care into ensuring they both arrived in one piece as a result. 

“Quite a sight, right?” She folds her hands behind her back and watches fondly as his gaze flickers between the arching bridges and foreign architecture. At the red accents in the wood, the sloping rooftops of pagodas, the intricate masonry and rising majesty of Kugane Castle. 

He cranes his head back and does a full, slow turn to take in the entire city, crunching gravel under his feet. A slow breath leaves him, and he blinks as if overwhelmed. “It’s certainly impressive. Is that all gold?” 

She follows his gaze to the spiral symbol displayed proudly in the middle of the castle. “Sure is. If you see anything glint off the walls here, chances are it’s probably gold. The city name is actually their ancient word for ‘gold’—or so I’m told. Truthfully, they probably rival the wealth of Ul’dah.”

“It has the appearances down at least.” He shifts his weight to one foot. Once the initial shock wears off, his attention settles on a wooden guard tower down the street. “Though something tells me it mimics more than just Ul’dah’s riches.” 

“Mm. There’s no syndicate but they are ruled by the military here. There’s also more than a handful of customs and mannerisms and ways to accidentally insult someone.”

“Oh, only a handful?” He repeats, dry. “And here I was worrying that there were at least a dozen.”

“Don’t worry. If we do something wrong, the worst case scenario is we wake up to a shinobi in our quarters. Who knows?”

“Shinobi?”

“Ninja. Assassins. Their word for rogue.” She idly waves her hand at the slanted line of rooftops behind them. “We’re probably being watched by at least one right now.” 

He shoots her a startled look, then throws another over his shoulder as if expecting someone behind him. 

She loops her arm through his as he tenses, then casually starts a path towards the markets. “Like I said, don’t worry. They’re much more welcoming to foreigners here but isolationist policies and tendencies still run deep in the larger nation. Just don’t do anything you wouldn’t in Ul’dah and we’ll be fine.”

“How reassuring,” Ardbert deadpans as he falls into step beside her. “Mayhaps I’ll just keep my mouth shut.” 

She snickers.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


After some consideration, she leaves him to peruse the market while she meets with Hancock. She still can’t get a solid reading on the man—and the shaded glasses certainly don’t help—but something tells her Ardbert would most definitely not approve of his perfunctory behavior. 

Smarmy git, Ardbert would call him. Without hesitation, too, if Hancock was someone otherwise irrelevant to Tataru and the Scions. She’s quickly learned that he tells things exactly as they are—much like Alisaie, which is why she assumes the two of them got on like a house on fire—and while she appreciates him for it, it’s not the best approach for negotiating and clinching business matters. 

So she deals with the headache that is the East Aldenard Training Company alone. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Later, after she and Hancock talk circles around one another enough to cover the distance of Kugane thrice-over, she walks out of the Ruby Bazaar offices rubbing the space between her brows and sighing in exhaustion.

Tataru, at least, would be happy with the performance. She just hopes she doesn’t have to return here for business any time soon; she’d left Ul’dah for this very reason. 

Sunlight hits her face as soon as she steps through the doors, and she winces and covers her eyes at the glare peeking over the rooftops of the market. 

“Shit,” she mumbles at the sight of the sun going down, then picks up the pace to find Ardbert. 

It doesn’t prove to be a difficult task; he’s nearly a head taller than everyone else and sticks out like a sore thumb in the sea of finery. She spots him at a food stall once she descends the steps to the market, observing as a vendor cooks right in front of the customers. 

Kugane street food always has a kick to it. Her mouth waters as a breeze sweeps down the market road and brings the tantalizing smell of frying dough. 

She slides up next to him. “Hey. I’m sorry, that took far longer than I thought it would.”

He just shrugs, distracted. 

“Are you waiting to try that, or just watching?” 

“Haven’t decided yet,” he says, sparing her a glance. “Still trying to piece together what exactly it’s supposed to come to once it's done.”

She stands on her tiptoes to peek over some shoulders. “I think it’s... takoyaki? I recognize the pans they’re using.”

“Takoyaki?”

“It’s a mix of dough, spices, and some soup mixture I think. And a piece of octopus in the middle. They form it into a ball as it cooks, see?” 

Ardbert grimaces. “I’ll have to pass, then.”

“Not a fan of spicy food?”

“Octopus, rather.”

She turns and raises both brows at him, not expecting that. “Really? But you love fish.” 

“And not octopus,” he huffs, crossing his arms. 

“...Huh.” 

“What?” he asks, eyes narrowing when she continues to stare. 

“Nothing, nothing! Just surprising, is all. Do you want to try something sweet instead? There’s another vendor down a bit further you might like.”

“Of course you know where that vendor is,” he says dryly, but trails after her as she nearly skips past him. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” 

He just smirks at her when she whirls around. She huffs and waves him off, but finds herself smiling. 

The aetheryte plaza is bustling when she leads him back towards a sitting area of low benches and red umbrellas. He waits as she strolls right up to another woman behind a nearby stall, talking animatedly and even sharing a laugh.

“This,” she says happily, returning with a plate in one hand and piping hot cup of tea in the other, “is dango.”

He eyes the colorful balls skewered on sticks while she takes a seat at a nearby bench. She sets the tea aside, then passes him one. “Go on. Try it.” 

He stares at it as though it’s going to burn him, then hesitantly accepts and takes a bite. She does the same with hers, watching with anticipation as he chews through it. 

“It’s sticky.” His brows furrow. “And tastes like... rice?” 

“And good with the tea!” 

He gives her an exasperated look when she carefully shoves the cup at him. Tea near spills out on their hands.

She smiles, sheepish. “Sorry, I know I get over enthusiastic at this. It’s just—”

“ _Mihren? Ardbert?_ ” 

They both freeze as their linkshells click to life. She carefully raises a hand to her ear, lowering the half-eaten stick of dango to the plate resting on her legs. “Tataru?”

_“Indeed! Seeing as you’re immediately available, is it safe to assume the proceedings with Hancock went as planned?"_

She tries not to sigh. “They sure did. He said to expect a letter from Lolorito soon. Well, he said a lot of things—” Tataru snorts over the line, “—but that was the main takeaway.” 

“ _Perfect. Thank you! I knew you were the right person to send. A little bit of intimidation always did work with that man.”_

“He’s still terrified of you. Despite asking multiple times when you plan to visit.” 

“ _And I may consider it in a few moons if this agreement comes through. Sea travel is quite a commitment, you know!”_ Even so, the pleased smile is evident in her tone. _“And Ardbert? How are you finding Kugane?_ ”

“Bright,” Ardbert says, sparing a glance at the castle looming before them. “Full of culture.”

“He said it reminds him of Ul’dah,” Mihren chimes in before she can laugh. “Not a minute after we got here.”

“ _And how right he would be! I’m glad you’ve more sense in new surroundings. More than some of our friends, at least. Merchants are merchants regardless of the place.”_

Mihren bites down a smile. Of course she still hasn’t let Alphinaud live down the sword incident. 

“ _That said, I did call for another reason,_ ” Tataru says after a pause. _“I received word from Doma in your absence. Everyone else is out at the moment, and given your current trip I decided it would be best to contact you directly. Do you think it possible that you may speak with Lord Hien while you are there? He mentioned something of great importance, yet best discussed in person.”_

“I suppose?” She shares a curious glance with Ardbert. “Did it sound bad?”

“ _I can’t say for certain. We’ve yet to hear of any battles, however, so I assume it’s nothing too worrying.”_

“Okay. Yes, we can see him. Thanks, Tataru.”

“ _Of course! Take care. Oh—and bring back some konpeito, please! They didn’t include any in the last shipment. Can you believe that?_ ”

Mihren bites down another smile. “How rude of them. Of course, Tataru. I’ll even bring back the pink sort. Just for you.” 

“Konpeito?” Ardbert repeats as the line goes dead, lowering his hand.

“Candy,” she says, picking up the skewer and taking another bite. 

He sighs and gingerly sips at the bitter tea, glancing over the rim and towards the aetheryte at the familiar zing of more adventurers teleporting in. “I should’ve known. All of you ladies have a sweet tooth.”

She gives him a sly grin, eyes twinkling with mirth. Folk leisurely stroll past them, preparing for the upcoming nightlife of the city, and lanterns slowly flicker on as the sun hits the line of the horizon. Once they finish their food, she hums and leans back on her palms, craning her head to stare thoughtfully at the looming figure of Kugane Tower before them. 

An idea strikes her. “Hey, Ardbert?” 

He blinks and refocuses on her. She realizes with pleasant warmth that he had been watching the sky turn to twilight. “Hm?” 

“I’m going to teleport in a moment. Will you come with me?”

“To where?” 

“It’s a surprise,” she says. “A place I want to share with you. I think you’ll like it.” 

He raises a brow when she extends a hand towards him, eyes curious at the gesture. She knows physical contact isn’t necessary for guiding others through the aetherial stream to a chosen destination—and they’ve synced teleports so many times over now that weaving their aether together comes as easily as breathing—but she figures the grounding weight of her hand in his might be helpful for where she’s about to take them.

He grasps her hand. She squeezes his fingers in reassurance, and whisks them away. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Wind snaps around them as they materialize on the thin, flat stretch of the bow-like arch at the very top of Kugane Tower. 

Ardbert blinks as the world reorients itself. 

Immediate panic sets in when he realizes where they are. His hands fly to her sides, gripping her so tightly that were she anyone else, she expects she would've snapped in half. "Why in the hells would you—"

She plants her feet so he doesn’t accidentally tip them over, then firmly cups his face between her palms. "Focus on me. And just me."

His jaw clenches and his lips thin, but he does. His eyes bore into hers, close enough that she can see the darker shades of blue flaring around his pupils. Another gust of wind comes from the sea and he goes so rigid it’s a miracle _he_ doesn’t snap in half. His hands tighten near painfully on her waist and she can feel his chest hitch, but his gaze doesn’t waver. 

"Breathe with me,” she says, rubbing one thumb against his cheek. “Slowly.” 

He does, and she feels his chest rise to mimic hers.

She gives him a small, encouraging smile and waits until his pulse settles and the panic is gone from his eyes, then gently turns his head to the side and towards the rest of the city. 

The stress on his face slowly smoothes out as twinkling lights and lanterns and a myriad of colors greet him. Kugane Castle cuts a regal figure against the setting sun, swathed in reds and oranges like a painting, catching and reflecting light in the golden accents. She feels him marginally relax as his gaze sweeps across the arching bridges, sprawling pagodas, and etched stones. 

She lowers her hands to rest loosely on his shoulders. "Nice, isn't it? I came up here once on a dare but ended up staying for hours. The world feels quieter up here. Slower.”

“Who was daft enough to make you come up here?” 

“Someone in the market. A painter, I think. I don’t really remember. But they promised me a whole crate of textiles if I could get them up here with a piggyback teleport since they were in no shape to climb. Not that it mattered in the end; I couldn’t ever find them once I finally managed to make it up here.” 

He huffs out something akin to a laugh, as though _of_ _course_ her reason for doing something so reckless would be just because someone asked it of her. “And you simply took their word for it? Why not just buy the materials yourself?” 

“I could’ve, but this was after we’d already crossed the Ruby Sea. It was more of an excuse to do something that didn’t include fighting.” She squints against the breeze. “A reason not to focus on the literal revolution I’d gotten swept up in." 

His hands tighten briefly around her waist. She ducks her head. “I came up here more than once after that, as you can imagine—hence the little aetheryte I hid away. Everything feels smaller up here. Far away, like nothing can reach you, you know?” 

His eyes burn a hole in the side of her face. There’s a question waiting on the tip of his tongue, she knows, but she continues on before he gets the chance. “Did you ever have a place that you went to just to get away? In Kholusia, maybe?” 

His breath brushes past her cheek as he exhales, and his gaze slides to the open sea over her head, tracking the specks of ships in the distance as the sun sets below the horizon line. “...I used to spend days following the shore from my home," he says. "Explored hidden coves and the like. One day I’d stumbled upon a lagoon some malms away. Was a bit treacherous, what with the steep cliffs… but the water was the clearest of blue you could imagine. And always warm.” 

“Did you return often?” 

“When I could. I’d swim there ‘til my skin burned red—even spent the night once, lost track of time—and though it stung like all hells after the fact, it's the most relaxed I remember ever being. Then a few years later the city caught wind and laid claim to it, and after that…” 

“There was never any time to search again.”

He sighs. “Right.” 

It’s too easy to picture him walking along the beach in the early hours of the morning with the sky painted pink, leaving footprints in the sand and disappearing along a long stretch of shore. He’s always been more relaxed around the sea. She’s once again struck with a melancholy vision of how his life could’ve been if he hadn’t made the choice to pick up an axe. 

A lump forms in her throat. “It sounds like it was lovely.”

“It was,” he murmurs, distant. "I miss it. I miss a lot of things before the flood, but that’s… that’s near the top of the list."

She leans back to get a good look at him. He’s entirely relaxed now as though the memories have soothed him, without a single line of tension to be found. “We can try and find a place like that here,” she says, idly brushing stray strands of hair from his face, fingers featherlight against his skin. “If you don’t mind sharing it with me.”

His expression softens as he turns back to her. “I’d like that.” 

"It's a date, then," she says with a smile. His eyes snag at the movement, flickering to her lips, and her breath hitches. 

He catches the light stutter and searches her face, then lightly tugs on her waist, testing. She follows the pull until they're flush together. The world below them slows to a hush as she reaches up to cup his face again, gently rubbing a thumb against his cheekbone, and his chin dips until he’s close enough for their noses to brush. 

“Ardbert…” 

He takes a breath, then gently slants his mouth against hers. 

The kiss is soft, tentative as they explore each other. She slides a hand to the back of his neck, fingers weaving into the short hairs there. His grip tightens when she presses against him, and she feels an arm wrap around her to rest securely at the curve of her back. Then his teeth lightly graze her bottom lip, and her world narrows in on the feel of his warm mouth sliding along hers and the lingering sweetness she tastes on his tongue.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They don’t talk about it as they leave for Yanxia the next day, as though the moment had been left in that quiet space above the world. 

It’s fine.

She needs to keep a level head, as travelling towards the Doman Enclave is as treacherous as before, with aggressive wildlife and steep cliffs, even as increased foot traffic and well-treaded paths spread in the Empire’s absence. 

But her mind swims with distraction, and it’s why they end up in Namai instead of directly at the enclave. It’s a miracle they don’t end up somewhere even further, given how she can’t seem to focus on anything besides him, and how her gaze keeps sliding back in his direction, hooked by his presence no matter what she does. 

"They don't do anything in halves here, do they?" Ardbert mulls once they reach the edge of the river, craning his head back to stare at the moon gates. The craters left in them from cannons have not yet been fixed, and dark, gleaming spikes still protrude from the arches. “Is the situation the same as in Ishgard?" 

“Sort of,” she says, coming to kneel beside him to dip her hands in the cool stream. “The people of Ishgard never lost their spark to fight. The Empire, however, was thorough in their subjugation of Doma. They made it a point to destroy people’s spirits as much as their homes.”

His brows furrow as his gaze trails up and along the stream until it settles on the sunken ruins of Doma Castle through the low, rolling mist of the valley, still peeking out from the river.

She splashes some water on her face and says, “Would you believe me if I said that was done willingly?"

"What?"

"The Garleans turned it into a base of operations and stored all manner of weapons within. Hien—the man we’re going to meet—knew his people were worth more than a building, so he made the call to flood it and hinder the Empire. He refused to let it be used as an enemy stronghold any longer."

"Hells of a gambit." Ardbert shifts uncomfortably. "Wasn’t it their home? And a grand one, at that?"

"Yes, but it was a chance to turn the tide and… despite how difficult the decision was, I think it was the right call to make."

His gaze sweeps across the dilapidated buildings and field once more, and his eyes linger heavily on places like he’s seeing something she can’t. "You fought here."

"I did. In the ruins. In the castle, once we stormed it. In the fields. It felt like it was never going to end. Sometimes I'm sure it won't."

"You were alone." It's not a question.

She smiles wryly and straightens out, stretching in the midday sun, feeling her joints pop. "Yes. And no. You know what it's like, being what we are. You shoulder everything so they don’t have to."

His eyes remain fixed at the space before them before he turns to face her, expression inscrutable. "You fought Zenos here."

She feels some old defense stir within her—an old gate, rising to close. "Are you asking or telling?"

"Mihr."

She sighs at his flat, no-nonsense tone. He always did this when he got tired of her flighty remarks and sought a straight answer. She wonders when he’d learned it was more effective than outright telling her to stop.

“So you know about him then. Yes, I fought Zenos here. And in numerous other places. But if I’m to talk about him then we’ll be here until sundown, and Hien and Yugiri are expecting us.” She sweeps past him, knowing full well and dreading the conversation he is trying to address. “So come on. We shouldn’t keep them waiting.” 

His gaze feels like hot irons pressing into her back.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Hien greets them with a magnanimous smile. "My friend! It is good to see you. And you’ve brought another Scion with you—though I don’t believe we’ve met before."

Ardbert opens his mouth. Closes it.

She hides a grin behind one hand. She’d given him a quick rundown of mannerisms and customs, as well as what to expect, but he’s still evidently thrown off by the man’s welcoming nature. 

_Far too generous for a lord,_ she can practically hear him say. _Too suspicious for my tastes._

“He recently joined us,” she supplies, smothering her grin into something more polite. “Though don’t let that fool you. He has more travel experience than all of us combined.” 

Ardbert shoots her a sharp look, and she bites her cheek at the flash of exasperation across his face. Of course he caught her double meaning. 

Hien’s brows raise as he turns to appraise Ardbert again. “I’m inclined to believe you with an axe like that. I’d say it nearly rivals the likes I’ve seen at the Steppe. A warrior, I presume?” 

“Ardbert,” he says in introduction. “And aye, though I’ve a longer history with them prior to all this.” Then he pauses again, and gives a polite—if a bit stiff—bow. 

Hien waves an idle gesture. “Please, there is no need for that. We are all friends here, and any of the Scions are more than welcome in Doma." 

“It has been too long since last we spoke,” Yugiri chimes in as Ardbert straightens out. “And full glad are we to see you and the Scions recovered. I only wish we could meet under better circumstances.”

Mihren sighs and gives a shrug. “We’ll be waiting a while yet for that to happen. You know how it is: put one fire out and another starts halfway across the world.” 

They slip into further pleasantries. She gives Ardbert a slight smile as they settle on the floor, catching wind of the awkward air around him. He meets her gaze and marginally relaxes—and she feels strange relief, too, seeing it. 

"How is the wall?" she asks then, redirecting any attention from him. “Have you had any problems with it?”

"It’s as well as can be,” Hien says, crossing his arms and nodding. "We’ve had no skirmishes with the Empire thus far, which is as much as any of us can hope for in these uncertain times. It has certainly given us the opportunity we need to rebuild."

"We've been hearing worrying news from the mainland, however. The civil war continues to rage across Garlemald and…" Yugiri trails off. Something sharp flashes behind her eyes and her gaze hardens. "And we’ve received increasingly strange reports."

Mihren frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Reports of a familiar face. Rumors that more than one of our old enemies has returned from beyond the grave."

Silence greets her. 

Mihren sighs and runs a frustrated hand through her hair. "Again? Do you know who? Or at least some inkling of who we need to watch out for?"

Yugiri hesitates. “Asahi sas Brutus.”

A beat passes.

Mihren breathes. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” 

  
  


**ix. ardbert**

The food in Doma is strange. The flavors dance on his tongue and he’s never entirely sure what he’s eating, but it’s delicious all the same. 

He pokes at a dumpling with his chopsticks, still mashed awkwardly between his fingers. "Tell me about him."

"Hm?" Mihren expertly places a dab of rice in her mouth.

"Asahi."

“He was a bastard,” is the immediate, crisp response. “If slime went by a different name. Or had a hyuran face. Truly, one of the worst people I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.” 

Ardbert raises a brow at her vehemence. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak ill of anyone like that.”

“You don’t know half of it.” She scrunches her nose, then brandishes her chopsticks at him like a weapon. “And don’t go poking around in my memories with the Echo. Trust me when I say you don’t want to know Asahi.” 

“And Zenos?” 

He's never seen her freeze up. Not against primals, or Lightwardens, or Emet-Selch when he’d taken true form. Part of his heart twists painfully at the flash of fear that flits across her eyes; the other half ignites in anger. She isn't someone who got scared easily. Not by a hyuran man, of all things. 

“What about him?” he prompts when she remains quiet. He watches the hesitation play out on her face. 

"He's not a happy topic," she says, now poking into her food with a deliberate touch. "Arguably one of the least happiest topics."

"You’ve fought him before."

"Right. And I will again.” She points at the bits of radish he’d nudged to the edge of his bowl. “Are you going to finish those? If not, I’ll eat them."

It's the most blatant topic change he's ever heard her give. 

Ardbert sips at his drink and thinks.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


While she gets pulled into reconstruction duties around the Doman Enclave and further insists on catching up with Yugiri, he returns to Yanxia where he’d seen spectres of her and others as they passed by. 

Mist rolls through the valley in the early dawn. Dew settles on his armor and hair as he heads towards the sunken ruins of Doma Castle. His feet move on their own through the ruined town by the river, taking him down an alley as though pulled by an unseen force. 

He stops when the air shifts and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Goosebumps prickle along his skin; a strange feeling washes over him. It’s as though all the heat has been sucked from the space, leaving naught but an eerie silence and a lingering, unnatural chill in its wake. 

A low buzz crescendos in his ear. He turns to see a spectre of Mihren channeling a spell in his direction, concentration furrowing her brows. He jumps back out of instinct just as it soars past him to smash into a hulking shade he hadn’t seen before. 

Zenos smacks the spell aside and continues forward with deliberate steps. The flare fizzes out of existence.

Other spectres dance at the edge of his vision, hinting at an extended battle, but Ardbert’s focus zeroes in on the wisps of darkness emanating from the man. Something feels terribly off about all of this, even though he knows it’s naught but a memory. He watches the two of them exchange blows until every other spectre flickers out of existence. His stomach drops further when nothing slows Zenos down. 

“You’re better than most,” Ardbert hears him say, and a familiar, sickening sense of inevitability crawls down his spine. “I’ll grant you that. But not good enough. This ends now.” 

Shadows gather at his feet like a swirling void. Ardbert’s breath hitches as the Echo screeches in his head and every fiber of his being yells at him to brace. 

He knows what’s about to happen. 

He doesn’t want to see this.

A shudder goes through him when the energy explodes outwards in shades of red and violet, blowing past his hair and taking what little heat remained with it. 

Mihren slams into a nearby wall with a sickening crunch. She slides to her knees and remains there. 

Zenos takes a step forward, and Ardbert’s blood turns to ice when she doesn't move. 

“Get up,” he hisses at her, fists clenched so tight his arms shake. “Get _up_.” 

She doesn’t. 

Zenos raises his sword.  
  
Something in him snaps. He moves on instinct, drawing his axe and bringing it down on the man’s head. It passes right through him, because of course it does—he is nothing but a nightmare etched into the very fabric of this place—and Ardbert stumbles a few steps as the momentum drags him forward. He scrunches his eyes shut, sets his jaw, and waits for the sword to connect.

A horn on the man’s helmet snaps, echoing loudly in the silence. 

Ardbert swivels around, wide-eyed, and watches with bated breath as Zenos slowly lowers his sword. He sheathes it, sheds his helmet, and considers it for what feels like an age. 

“Oh... how right I was to spare your life.” 

Ardbert’s skin crawls at the cold smile that slides across the man’s face. 

“Hear me, hero. Endure. Survive. Live. For the rush of blood, for the time between the seconds—live. For the sole pleasure left to me in this empty, ephemeral world—live!” 

And then they’re both gone, mere golden wisps in the wind.

Ardbert is left standing alone in the middle of a ruined town with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach and an awfully familiar, lingering sense of dread. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He teleports to Rhalgr's Reach in a blink and lets his body settle from the sheer distance travelled. The muggy heat slaps his face, jarring him from the previous chill and sinking through his armor to warm his skin. 

Thancred had told him, in passing, that their first true taste of conflict with the Empire came in the space between the mountains, right at Rhalgr’s feet. An ambush, he’d said—one that came down on their heads swift and severe as an executioner’s axe. 

There are no hints of the battle now. Members of the resistance stroll leisurely past him, carrying crates and conversing, and he spots more than one adventurer bartering by the merchants set up within the hollowed-out cliffside. 

He walks along the path to Rhaglr’s shrine up from the aetheryte, then settles on the edge of the walkway, legs crossed with his axe beside him. The sun beats down, merciless, baking him where he sits. Beads of sweat roll down the back of his neck and the sound of rushing water fills his ears. A refreshing, cool breeze brings with it the faint mist from the waterfalls along the temple. 

He closes his eyes. Focuses on the lull between heartbeats. 

Sounds of a distant battle steadily crawl towards him. He smells ash and smoke and burning flesh, and when he opens his eyes again the entire camp is on fire with embers flickering in the wind. 

It’s chaos. Soldiers in faceless, dark suits cut down resistance members with ease. The clang of steel and screams fill his ears, and it’s all sickeningly clear as though this memory has also been burned into the ground. 

He sets his jaw and watches as Zenos takes the field across the water, swatting aside a woman he’s yet to meet with nary an effort. Y’shtola steps in to defend her, and in the next breath, Zenos cracks her barrier like an egg.

Ardbert is up and on his feet the moment Mihren arrives and once again finds himself at the edge of their battle. He watches and waits, blood rushing to his ears until he can’t hear anything else, and his stomach churns like rolling waves as she throws spell after spell after spell. 

He’s watched her topple primals and Lightwardens and Ascians with that magic. 

Zenos walks through it all as though it’s a pleasant summer breeze.

He sounded like a right monster, he’d told Alisaie. It feels like a gross understatement now. 

“It would seem I misjudged you," Zenos says, flat. "This ends now.” 

Ardbert doesn’t think. He plants his feet right in front of her and braces as Zenos changes his stance, boldly staring down the edge of the man’s sword despite knowing full well this is a memory—and how ridiculous he must look to those without the Echo. But there’s the same sense of wrongness here, like he’s stuck on the hazy edge of sleep, slogging through a thick fog as time slows to a crawl. 

Zenos passes through him like a wraith. It sends an ice cold chill down his spine, yet he feels the slightest, bare minimum of resistance against his armor. 

Mihren grunts and hits the ground. 

The sword Zenos holds snaps in half. 

Ardbert pivots and moves until he stands between them once again, glaring darkly as the man inspects the broken weapon in his hand. Mihren drags herself to her knees behind him, right at his feet, wheezing. 

The desire to be her shield rocks his soul. He grits his teeth. “Begone, damn you!” 

Zenos pauses and Ardbert’s heart damn near stops. He can’t tell if the man is staring at him—not through the soulless helmet covering his face—but with the way his hair stands on end and the ground drops out from under him, it feels like he can. 

Ardbert waits. And waits and waits.

Zenos drops his sword, then turns on his heel. 

The world sharply snaps into place. 

Ardbert sucks in a breath, chest heaving as though he’d just been seconds from drowning as all of his senses sharpen at once. His eyes dart to get a sense of his surroundings. He finds himself standing beside a merchant's tent. 

No one looks at him. The sun harshly beats down on the sand as it always has. 

He runs a trembling hand down his face. The lingering terror, shaking hands, the taste of corrupted aether—it all begins to make sense. The memory he’d seen in the Ala Mhigan Quarter barely brushed upon their history. It was—or was meant to be—the final page in their conflict. 

Zenos hadn’t defeated her just the once. _Twice_ he bested her—at least to his knowledge—and Ardbert gets a terrible, creeping suspicion that she’d only defeated him as Shinryu because he’d possessed a primal.

He waits until he can think straight before teleporting back to the Doman Enclave. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He finds her waiting for him at the edge of the stone pier, feet dangling into the river as the sun sets in the distance. “You went chasing memories today, didn’t you?” 

He stops in place and stares at her back, unable to gauge her tone. “I did.” 

The distance between them seems to stretch with her silence. He forces himself to take the final few steps and settles heavily beside her. 

A ferry arrives nearby and brings with it a low din of conversation. He hazards a glance from the corner of his eye when the group passes the pier behind them, and finds her still staring thoughtfully out into the river. 

“I’ve always felt… something,” she eventually says, pensive. “A slight change in the aether, a low whisper over my shoulder. A figure I could never make sense of, always just out of the corner of my eye… but it was you, wasn't it? It’s always been you.”

She turns to face him then, and the same confusion he feels is reflected in her gaze. “But how? How could you possibly have been there?”

He gives a half-hearted shrug and says, “The Echo. It’s been strange ever since I got here. Though damned if I know the why of it.” 

She stares at him. 

He takes a breath and tells her everything. 

  
  


**x. mihren**

By the time they return to Revenant’s Toll, she feels like her brain is about to turn to mush with how much effort she’s put into contemplating the intricacies of Ardbert’s use of the Echo. 

None of it made any sense. 

And yet at the same time it felt right, as though of _course_ his variant of the Echo would focus on the past. Of course he would be more sensitive to the memories etched into the land just as they both are sensitive to the memories buried in people. Of course he would be able to walk through them. She often peered into the hazy future—why couldn’t he do the opposite? 

_It has only happened with memories of you_ , he’d said, and she wonders again, idly, if it had to do with their shared soul. 

Stranger things have happened. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The entrance to the Rising Stones is quiet when they walk in, and after sharing a look they find everyone already gathered in the Solar. For a moment, she’s stopped in her tracks at the sight of everyone together. Y’shtola, Urianger, Thancred, Krile, Alisaie and Alphinaud—G’raha now, too, seated by the fireplace. 

And Ardbert beside her. 

She doesn’t remember the last time everyone was in one room like this—at least not on the Source. The comfort and reassurance of her friends all hale and whole and _home_ settles across her shoulders like a warm quilt. She hides a smile and walks directly to the desk in the middle of the room, then turns and leans back against it. 

Thancred catches her eye and gives a slight nod. “So,” he says, and the low din of conversation quiets at once. “What news do you have to share with us?” 

She takes a breath. “Asahi is back.” A pause. “Allegedly.” 

“He’s what?” Alisaie snaps, straightening out immediately from her post against one of the lounge chairs. “Are you certain?” 

Thancred hums and shifts his weight to one foot. “So it could be true, then.”

Mihren spares him a glance. “I take it you’ve heard similar rumors?”

“Nothing concrete, which is why I never mentioned it. But if our friends in the east are hearing it as well…”

“There could be some kernel of truth to it.”

Ardbert moves to lean against a far wall as she relays everything Yugiri told them, clearly opting to take an observer’s role beside G’raha. They share a look out of the corner of her eye and a silent conversation passes between them, but she doesn’t get the chance to identify it further as Alphinaud takes the floor.

“How certain are we that it is Asahi himself and not another Ascian? They’ve used this ploy before. Several times over.”

“It’s not Asahi,” Mihren says before anyone else gets a chance. “He didn’t have the Echo or the Empire’s artificial Echo and quite frankly if it _was_ him we’d have known the minute he was back.” 

Thancred raises a brow. “You sound certain.” 

“Is Garlemald still a mire of succession struggles?” When he nods, she just raises her hands with a shrug. “Then it’s not him. Asahi would’ve been the first to sing praises and push Zenos to the throne. He worshipped him and would settle for no less.” 

Thancred considers for a moment, then sighs. “A fair enough point.” 

Alisaie grumbles, but appears to relax as though dealing with Ascians is preferable to dealing with Asahi. “So assuming it is an Ascian then, just who are we contending with this time?”

“How many are left?” Mihren asks, leaning back and crossing her arms. “Surely there’s only a handful. I feel like we’ve put a solid dent into their numbers.”

“Fourteen sat on the Ascian’s convocation,” Urianger reminds everyone. “Therefore a roll call would suffice here, one wouldst think.” 

“Right. And turns out I was one of them—or Ardbert and I were—so we can knock the number down one. But can I just point out how odd it is that we now have a running list of defeated Ascians? It’s only been...three years? Four? Five?” She winces and tilts her head back at the ceiling. “Gods, I’ve already lost track. Someone help me out here.” 

Y’shtola’s lips twitch. “It certainly has been a long road here.” 

“And yet it feels like very little time has passed at all,” Alphinaud adds with a slight smile. “With how busy we always are.”

Alisaie places her hands on her hips. “Well I, for one, would say this pace is rather good. If we continue to remove an Ascian per year then perhaps we’ll be able to retire before we’re all Thancred’s age.” 

“Hey!”

G’raha raises a hand to hide a smile. Ardbert, on the other hand, does a poor job at hiding his snort. 

“Alright, alright,” Mihren snickers and waves to regain everyone’s attention. “Thancred’s old age aside—” he shoots her a flat look while Alisaie just laughs again, “—let’s run through the Ascians we’ve downed. So: Lahabrea, Emet-Selch, and Elidibus are all out. Igeyorhm as well.” She pauses and adds, “Nabriales, too.” 

“We dealt with Mitron and Loghrif on the First,” Ardbert says from his spot against the wall. “And they were the only Ascians we’d heard of there.”

Krile takes a step forward. “We may count Emmerololth defeated as well. Our excursions to Eureka confirmed as much.” 

Y’shtola raises a finger to her chin in thought. “Which brings us to eight. With the paragons defeated it may as well be safe to assume that no others will be uplifted in their place.” 

“Though there’s no way for us to be certain of that,” Alisaie says. “For all his truths, Emet-Selch may as well have lied to us about other matters.” 

Thancred tilts his head. “On the assumption that he didn’t, however, we are looking at five remaining.” 

“But to what end would Zenos work with an Ascian?” Alphinaud asks, eyes narrowed and brows pinched in thought. “Or an Ascian, with Zenos? He showed no interest in Zodiark or the Ascians' work, as far as I could tell.” 

“He’s interested in power,” Mihren says. “Or a good fight. Or…” Something in her mind clicks. Her expression smoothes out as she stares at the floor. “Or both.”

Alphinaud leans back slightly, as if struck by her intent. “He means to fight Zodiark? But that doesn’t—”

“Or he means to possess him.” 

Silence meets her words. 

“He possessed Shinryu,” she reminds them quietly, gauging everyone’s frozen expressions. “And gave me an entire speech in Ala Mhigo about how I wasn’t using the Echo properly. Said I was squandering its full potential. And we now know that Zodiark is a primal, just as Hydaelyn is… and since I’ve been called Hydaelyn’s champion before, using her power... that line of thinking is there.”

“But to possess him?” Alphinaud repeats, stunned. “Madness. None know where he is, if he even—” 

“Yet that would explain why we haven’t seen hide or hair of Zenos as of late,” Thancred interrupts. His eyes are narrowed, and she gets the feeling he’s hooked on to her line of thought far faster than anyone else. “If he’s currently searching, then it would shed light on a lot of what I’ve been hearing.” 

A somber atmosphere settles over the room. 

Y’shtola breaks it with a sigh and settles her hands on her hips. “Well. Tis certainly a method of reviving their dead god, however odd the method.”

Urianger further nods in assent, solemn. “Fitting indeed, and it is well within their motives thus far. The implications, however, are far more troubling—which is naught to say of what mayeth happen should Zenos succeed.” 

Another beat passes. 

Alisaie groans and covers her face with both hands. “So. Let me make sure I’m understanding this correctly. Zenos returns from beyond the grave and comes up with a goal to… what? Possess one of the strongest primals ever known?” 

“For sport,” Mihren adds.

“For sport,” Alisaie repeats, flat. “Right.” 

“And... to fight me, I assume. I figure he decided he needed more power after our battle in Ala Mhigo. Maybe the Ascian hooked him with that.” 

“Oh,” Alisaie chuckles, and there’s a faint hint of hysteria to it. “Not a problem then. You’ll just face off against one of the most powerful, ancient primals known since antiquity, possessed by one of the worst enemies we’ve ever had to face. Is that the plan?”

“Sounds like it.” Mihren gives her a tight, strained smile. “Just another day for the Scions and Warrior of Light, right?” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Anxiety gnaws away at her in a way it hasn’t since the Dragonsong War. It feels like the world is slowly closing in around her— _again_ —and it gets to the point where even the spacious tower walls surrounding the town feel constricting. 

She sweeps out the door the moment their meeting is over, straight up and out of Revenant’s Toll. Her feet take her in the direction of the Crystal Tower. She doesn’t stop until she’s at the edge of the lake, in the shadow of Midgardsomr’s corpse, to finally take a breath. 

Ardbert is right on her heels, she knows. The confident gait and crunching gravel underfoot is unmistakable. He steps up into her space the moment she stops and grabs her face, cradles it between his palms and refuses to let her look away. 

"You will not face him alone," he says, firm.

"Ardbert..."

He rubs a thumb over her cheek, then settles his hands on her shoulders. "You will not, do you hear me? However he appears as, be it as a man or a primal, I'll be right there beside you."

She’s struck with visions of Y’shtola, bleeding out on the war-scorched ground of Rhalgr’s Reach. Of the trauma Krile had confided in her after the dust had all settled, having been subject to the Empire’s attempts to harness the Echo. Of Lyse, and Hien, and Yugiri, and even Alisaie, giving their all and then some, and still being brushed aside like gnats in the face of his ridiculous power. 

Zenos had cut down each of her friends, one by one by one until none were left standing. 

Hells, he’d cut _her_ down like she was a novice conjurer learning to move pebbles. She doesn’t even want to think about what he would be like if augmented by Zodiark.

And while Ardbert is strong—stronger than the Scions, she’d wager—he’s also a massive chink in her armor. If Zenos caught wind of it he'd exploit it without a moment's hesitation like a shark drawn to blood. He’d do it with glee, too, if it meant she’d fight him no holds barred. And she knows—she _knows_ beyond the shadow of a doubt—that she will fly off the handle should he ever succeed in hurting Ardbert. 

Her dream looms like a dark, ominous cloud over her mind. 

"No," she says, setting her jaw. “You won’t.” 

"What?"

She meets Ardbert's incredulous stare with steel. "You heard me. No."

His gaze hardens. “Then I must not have made myself clear. You’ll either face him with me or not at all.” 

“What!" 

“You heard me.”

She sees red. The creeping threat of Zenos smothers all sense.

She slams a hand against Ardbert’s chest, charged with aether, and he’s gone from her sight. He grunts at the impact, stumbles and skids across the ground several yalms away, but manages to keep his footing. Air hisses past his teeth as he hunches over, wheezing for breath. She feels a hysterical desire to laugh, seeing it, but she has enough sense to resist the impulse. 

"I said no,” she snaps. “If— _when_ —Zenos shows, I will face him alone. That’s final. I don’t care if we’re friends or not."

Ardbert takes a slow, deep breath before straightening out. "Friends, are we?"

Her lips thin at the mocking tone. 

He searches her face, and when she tenses and maintains her glare, his expression slowly goes blank. “I see. If this is how you want to go about things, so be it.” 

The edge of his axe hits the ground with a sharp, ominous _chink_ , sending up sparks from the impact. “If words won’t reach you, then mayhaps this will.”

A chill goes down her spine. She finds no warmth in his expression, no hint of his thoughts or signs of the kindness she’s gotten used to, and for a terrible moment she remembers how he’d stared her down in Thanalan all that time ago, eyes cold and intent on taking her life.

 _He's not actually going to do it_ , she thinks as the line of tension grows taut between them. 

Yet at the same time, she can’t help but stare him down with a challenge in her gaze. 

His lip curls. Then he takes a step forward, dragging the axe along, before picking up speed and charging at her.

Her face goes blank. Her vision tunnels. 

Instincts kick in and she blows him away with more wind-aspected aether just as he reaches her. 

They’ve been here before. Her grip tightens around her cane.

She knows exactly how this is going to go.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Despite the anger and frustration coursing through him like wildfire, Ardbert bides his time. 

He knows how she fights. He knows where the openings are, as he's constantly covering them. He knows just how deep that aether reservoir of hers goes and exactly when she needs to catch her breath. 

So while she throws spells so alike to Ronkan magic at him, stone and air and chilling water to keep him at a distance, and sends him flying through crystal formations around Mor Dhona like he weighs nothing, he keeps a level head and waits. 

He’s outlasted her before. 

He can do it again.

"Had enough yet?" she calls from half a field away as he drags himself back up.

He shakes his hair free of shards and grins at her. It’s sharp, all teeth.

"Haven't even gotten started."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Not once does it feel like she’s about to be severed by his axe. It’s all pushes and shoves; her anger ignites like a live fuse at the realization that he’s toying with her. He hounds her all the way past Silvertear Lake, past the archeologist tents, dogging her steps like a shadow, always a step behind until she snaps.

“Is this a joke to you?!” she shouts, pivoting in place. She’d lost sight of him nearly a minute ago, but still feels the wisps of his anger nearby. “Do you think Zenos will let you play with him like this?” 

Silence meets her.

She grits her teeth. “Ardbert! Get out here and—” 

Pain explodes on her side as he rams into her with his full weight, appearing from behind a crumbling pillar. Her teeth rattle as she goes soaring, and a white jolt shoots up her shoulder when she lands wrong. 

Bits of crystal and scattered gravel crunch under his boots as he casually steps towards her. 

"Forget Zenos.” He taps the handle of his axe against his shoulder. "You put up more of a challenge before. Something the matter? Or is it because you don't have the others beside you now, dividing my attention?"

She sinks healing aether into her arm and glares at him. 

"Go on,” he goads. “Say something smart. See how that ends." Then he tilts his head in challenge, ear towards her as if listening.

Her patience frays like a burnt thread. The air crackles around them. 

His eyes widen seconds before an explosion rocks him from his feet. He soars through yet another outcrop of crystals with a curse. 

She coughs and drags herself to her feet, waving off the low billows of smoke and swallowing down the metallic taste of black magic on her tongue. 

Naught but scorched earth remains in the place he just stood. Her eyes slide to the pile of rubble he crashed into.

“You still alive in there, Ardbert?" she calls. 

A hand appears. It wraps around the handle of his axe, and he uses it to pull himself up, shrugging off the rocks piled over him. There’s a faint singe to his armor and smoke rises in wisps from the fur on his shoulders. He raises a hand to wipe his face and only smudges soot all over it. 

She feels a slight, manic grin tug at her lips when he exhales sharply through his nose and pins her with a dark glare through the haze. Faint, amber aether twists around him. 

He doesn’t hold back after that.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Heat sears across his skin as she sets off another explosion. He sets his jaw and blocks when a torrent of water follows right on its heels, slamming into him with the force of a mammoth. He locks his legs and holds steady, even though it feels like he’s trying to keep an entire ocean at bay. 

"Give up already!" she shouts somewhere in the distance. "I'm not budging on this!"

He closes his eyes and exhales, then plants his feet when the current shifts upwards in an attempt to undermine his center of balance. His own aether kicks up in response, twisting around his body and chipping away at the spell thrown at him until it is mere droplets in his face. 

He catches sight of her frustrated glare across the field, and the soft rise of her chest as she pants. He feels a satisfied smirk tug at his lips. 

“Don’t tell me you’re getting tired!” he yells back. “Or do you need a moment to sit down, catch your breath?”

Her eyes immediately narrow into slits. He tastes a shift in the wind around him. 

He adjusts his grip, shakes the water from his eyes, then charges again. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They leave a trail of craters in their wake. 

Loud booms echo throughout all of Mor Dhona with shockwaves that kick up shattered crystal and rubble both. Windows rattle as it goes on. 

People in town exchange wary looks as the weather begins to shift.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


She remembers—and hates—how infuriating it is to fight him. 

He didn’t create aftershocks that gouged lines in the ground when he’d swung his axe before. The earth didn’t buckle under his strength. Aether _certainly_ didn’t crackle around him like a storm, both protecting him and chipping away at her spells with constant force. It all reminds her vividly that he’s as much a Warrior of Light as she is even if he doesn’t weave the energy into spells like a mage.

She clicks her tongue and hurls another boulder at him. He shrugs it off like it’s a minor inconvenience and she starts to feel like she’s throwing rocks expecting to break a mountain.

She’s eradicated primals with less. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


When he finally manages to close the distance, she throws up a solid barrier between them the moment his axe comes down over her head. Steel meets condensed aether with a hiss as it sizzles and pushes back at him. She clenches her fist, nearly blinding him as the shield swells, reinforcing itself layer by layer and refracting light. 

He grits his teeth, widens his stance, and presses down harder. 

His arms strain. 

The ground cracks under his feet.

He hears her suck in a breath just as a hairline fracture appears in the glass-like texture. The edge of his axe snaps past and stutters as aether rushes up to meet it, nearly brushing her fingers, and a low, continuous crunch fills the space as the crack splinters out like a web.

Their eyes meet. 

He adjusts the angle at the last second. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Warm blood slides down her side, sticking to her skin and soaking her shirt. She curls into herself and blasts him away with a half-hearted spell. Restorative magic immediately flows towards her arm, stitching skin back together. 

He skids back, and for once, remains still.

Her lips thin when he just stares at her. “Problem?"

"You tell me."

She eyes him. Scorch marks cover his armor. A bruise is already forming on his face—a blooming, dark purple welt. By the way he favors his left, she wonders if there’s similar splotches across his sides. 

She says, "You look like shit. Sure you want to keep going?"

He snorts and shifts to hold his axe with one hand. “Awfully bold talk for someone about to keel over. Need a moment to heal that arm of yours?” 

“Please. I could fight you with one.” 

He clicks his tongue. "Still stubborn as ever, I see."

Her hackles raise. "You’re one to talk, you bullheaded, maddening piece of—!" 

Violent, dark energy courses up her body like ink as she channels a massive flare and hurls it at him. 

He sighs. 

Raw terror flashes through her as he patiently waits to meet it head on.

She watches with her heart in her throat as he raises his axe a moment before contact. Sparks fly across steel and tendrils of smoke lick past him when he cuts through the sphere of focused, turbulent energy like it’s a summer breeze. The following explosion sends debris in all directions as it smashes into the protruding crystals behind him. She sucks in a breath of relief, and in the next blink he’s before her, fingers seizing around her neck like a vice as heat roars past them. Air wheezes out of her lungs as he slams her against the rocks she’d been using to cover her flank. 

"Do you really want to keep on with this?” he asks, voice pitched low. His grip tightens until she sees spots. “Or should I throw you around some more 'til you finally decide to see reason?” 

Fury sears through her with such force that she forgets to breathe. He was accusing _her_ of being obstinate? She snarls and grabs at his chest, feeling her last bit of restraint sizzle and die. 

The air explodes between them with a resounding boom as she sets off another explosion.

Ardbert soars backwards and off somewhere to her left while her skull smacks back against stone so hard she sees stars. She barely hears the loud string of curses erupt from him as her ears ring with a loud shrill, and for a moment, it’s impossible to tell up from down. She sucks in a ragged breath, attempts to drag herself to her feet again, and just about manages to when the hair on the back of her neck stands on end. There’s a subtle shift in the smoke around her, slowly converging around her like a vice. 

Her stomach falls through the floor the moment she recognizes what it is.

She backpedals. 

It's not fast enough. 

“Enough,” Ardbert growls through the smoke and chains snap into existence to constrict around her body like snakes. 

She goes down like a sack of rocks. 

He takes two long strides and straddles her, one fist glowing bright with the tether and the other slamming down by her head. The ground cracks by her ear. “Why in the seven hells are you so stubborn about this?!” 

She bares her teeth. “Because you don’t know Zenos!” 

"I know enough of him!" 

"You don't. The Echo means nothing when compared to meeting him in battle."

"And so I'm not to fight him? Is that it?" He barks out a short, dark laugh. "How many times have I faced an unknown enemy? How many times has that mattered?"

Another spell rushes under her skin like a live current, sparking pins and needles all along her arms and legs. It snaps at her like a rabid dog. 

She feels a bit like one, right now. Her chest heaves with short pants. “Let me go.” 

“Are you going to listen?”

“Let. Go.” 

His hand fists in her shirt, and he must feel the rage of aether coursing through her. He leans down until they’re nose to nose, his breath hot on her skin. “Go on. Set off the spell. Let's see who walks out of it.” 

She trembles under him, brittle and tense and seconds from cracking like a thin layer of ice bucking under too much weight. She could do it—if only to prove a point. 

“I dreamed of you,” she finally snaps, and it doesn’t sound like her at all. “Of _you_ , Ardbert. Of you and Zenos on the battlefield. Do you know how it ended?” 

She doesn’t give him a chance to speak. “He killed you. He _killed_ you! He’s like a storm that can’t be stopped. I have tried—died, even, in G'raha's terrible future—to keep him and the Empire at bay. I keep fighting him, over and over and over, but he keeps crawling back like a terrible dream and I don’t—” Her breath hitches. "I don't…"

His lips thin as he stares down at her, eyes sharp. "You don’t what?"

She sucks in a breath. “I don’t want to lose you. Not to him. I care too much and I’m terrified that—that if I know… if there’s a chance..."

He goes silent when she trails off. Her heart feels like it's going to beat right out of her chest.

"You don't want to lose me," he repeats slowly, one word at a time, and part of her withers at the flat tone. "Is that it?"

It sounds so juvenile coming from his lips. She shrinks in his grasp and remains quiet, feeling raw and vulnerable and much too small under his piercing gaze. She hadn’t said what she truly meant to say, but the confession rings loudly between them regardless. 

It feels like an age before he takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Finally, the truth of it.” 

She chews on her lip until it bleeds, and pointedly focuses on anything but the feel of him above her and the full weight of his attention. "Yes. Now let me go."

His eyes droop as he regards her. "No, don’t think I will."

She turns her head away. His fingers flex in the fabric of her shirt. 

“Look at me.” 

She refuses. 

His grip tightens. “I said look at me.” 

She glares at him with as much anger as she can muster. He merely smiles, a low, secret thing, and leans down until she feels his breath fan against her cheek. 

"How many times has it been," he begins with a murmur, and she freezes at the hoarse tremor there, "that I’ve remained standing, lingered on, when by rights I should’ve ended? Tell me.” 

Her mouth moves, but her brain short-circuits when he dips his chin and trails his lips along her jaw until he reaches the shell of her ear. Wet strands of hair brush her skin. 

“Or have you forgotten that I’ve lived as naught but a shade for damn near a century? That I’ve returned from death itself? Does all of that pale in the face of one bad dream?”

When she continues to stare wide-eyed at the sky above them, he exhales and the chains around her dissolve like smoke in the wind. He gently cups her cheek. “What more would you have of me? Tell me, and by the gods I’ll—” 

Someone loudly clears their throat somewhere to their left. 

They both freeze.

“Are you two quite finished?” Thancred asks from a small ledge over them. “You have the entire town thinking there’s a primal running rampant out here.” 

The moment between them shatters like a hammer taken to glass. Ardbert tenses against her, then takes a deep calming breath before pulling back.

He spares Thancred a glance over his shoulder, face carefully blank. “Aye, we’re done.” 

Thancred, to his credit, meets the thinly veiled hostility tossed his way with a duly raised brow. “Good. Because any longer and you might’ve had more than each other to worry about. The archeologists of the town are rather protective of their Allagan ruins and rubble.” 

It hits her a moment too late that these two have fought before. Seriously, and to the death. 

Archeologists, her ass. Affection and irritation both spark at Thancred’s protectiveness. 

She groans and props herself up on one elbow. Her body protests as the pain hits all at once, searing through her and pulling a wince from her lips. Ardbert gives her space, but she can feel his eyes on her like hot coals when she moves to heal the gash he’d torn in her arm. 

“Bit much for a friendly spar,” Thancred notes idly. “Or did the land valiantly resist your attempt to redecorate?” 

“Thancred.”

He merely smiles at her warning tone and crosses his arms. “Just making sure I have the right of it before the others get here. As I said, the entire town heard this ruckus. And I don’t suppose you two noticed just what you’ve done to the weather?”

They both crane their heads at the sky. The gloom looks worse than usual, with iridescent aether rolling in on itself like the sea during a storm.

“Really. Out of all the places to pick for a spar, you two could not have chosen a worse location.” 

She winces. “Sorry. But we’re fine, I promise. Just... had a disagreement, is all.”

“Is that what you call this mess?”

She sighs and focuses on fully healing her arm. Her shoulders drop in relief when the painful throbbing finally eases to a dull ache, and once that’s taken care of, she hazards a glance at Ardbert.

The heavy, focused weight of his half-lidded gaze has her flushing under her clothes.

She bites her lip and raises a hand to heal the bruise on his cheek. He turns his head, ever so slightly, that his lips brush her palm, but his eyes remain firmly locked on hers.

Her heart stutters. 

Thancred hums behind them. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Y'shtola gives them both a scolding worthy of accolades about how reckless and irresponsible it is to throw around such large amounts of aether in a naturally unstable environment—at least after making sure neither of them were truly at risk of keeling over. 

The reprimands would be more effective if Mihren wasn't distracted by the way Ardbert loomed over her shoulder. Or by the hand pressing lightly against the small of her back. Or by the promises she swears she can hear being made in her ear.

Y'shtola, perceptive as she is, catches on to their split attention and sighs. "I see my words may as well be falling on deaf ears. I suggest that whatever it is you two have had such a fierce disagreement on, you settle it elsewhere." She pauses. " _Without_ destroying the territory you do it in, preferably."

Mihren bites her lip. 

Y’shtola’s eyes glitter. She gestures expectedly at the door behind them.

They’re gone in seconds. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He pins her against the wall the moment they’re through the door of her home, slipping his hands beneath her shirt and kissing a line along her jaw. The dull throb and lingering bruises on her back protest as he presses against her, but it barely registers as her focus narrows in on the feel of his lips sucking at a tender spot on her throat. 

"Why is this so damn complicated?" she hisses, impatient fingers flying over the clasps and buckles of his clothes. "How many layers does a man need?"

Ardbert smirks against her neck, and her stomach flips at the light graze of his teeth. "Being defeated by a set of armor, are we? Do you need a hand?" 

She breathes out a laugh. "Oh, I'm going to need a lot more than that from you."

He nips at her throat, then grips her thighs and hoists her up. She wraps her legs around him, ankles locking behind his back, and deftly pulls at the leather straps across his shoulders, half of a mind to just burn the damn things off as he makes a beeline for the bedroom. Bits and pieces of his armor clatter to the floor as he carries her up. She loses her shirt somewhere on the stairs. 

By the time she manages to get his upper half bare, he's settling back against her bed and dragging her onto his lap, pressing hot kisses across her chest and every inch of her he can reach. 

“I like you like this,” she murmurs, raking her nails up his biceps before looping her arms loosely around his neck. “Quiet. No smart remarks to be heard.” 

His fingers dig into her waist before a calloused palm snakes its way up the small of her back, past her nape, and tangles into the mess of her hair. 

She giggles when he grabs a fistful of it and pulls. A thrill runs through her. "Did that hit a nerve?" 

“You talk too damn much,” he murmurs against her throat. Another tug on her hair forces her to arch further into him, and his breath ghosts across her collarbone as he dips down to catch a nipple with his mouth. A low moan passes through her as he slides both hands down her sides, tracing her curves before gripping handfuls of her backside and pulling her close. 

The heat between them swells with every stroke and caress. Still, she can’t help but notice the dark purple welts blooming across his sides—evidence that her spells hit their mark—and can't help but reach for them.

He falls back against the bed with a sigh as warm, healing aether flows from her palms. 

"I'm sorry,” she murmurs, leaning down to kiss the edge of his mouth. “I shouldn't have thrown so much at you." 

His eyes slide closed as she runs her hands up the planes of his chest and along his arms, guiding soothing magic around his body. "Not nearly the worst I’ve had. But if all our arguments are going to look like that…"

"Rethinking your choices?"

"Definitely not."

"I've been told I'm a handful."

He snorts and cracks his eyes open. The light pinch at her waist makes her jump. "Don’t I know it."

"Are you sure you—”

He cups the back of her neck and pulls her down again.

It would be so easy to get lost in him like this, she thinks as her head spins. To spend hours savoring the taste of him and the heat of his body under hers. To enjoy the way he roves his hands up her sides and maps out every inch of her. At any other time she would be more than content to take it slow and enjoy the moment, but right now the throbbing heat between her legs makes her impatient. With her elbows resting on either side of his head she gives an experimental roll of her hips, and then another, spurred by the way he groans and buries his face in her neck as she grinds against the hardness in his pants. 

His hands settle firmly on her waist as she moves in his lap. He lifts his hips to meet hers. 

She brushes her cheek against his and lightly nips at his ear. "That feel good?"

"You've no idea," he mumbles back, hoarse. 

She breathes out a laugh as heat pools in her belly. "I think I might."

He snakes a hand between them then, and confident fingers slip under the band of her shorts and smalls to brush against her folds. Her breath hitches as his fingers move in lazy, circular motions, spreading the slick between her thighs until she can’t help but follow the movement. 

His gaze darkens, eyes rapt as he watches her lips part with small sighs above him. “Look at you. So eager for this.”  
  
“Of course I am,” she mumbles, distracted. “Aren't you? Because I’ve wanted you for... for...” she bites her lip and fists her hands in the sheets by his head when he slides a finger into her heat. 

"For?"

Her eyes flutter closed. "For…"

"Tell me," he murmurs by the shell of her ear.

She grinds against his hand, following the way he slowly pumps his finger into her. "I—"

"Tell me, love."

She can't focus. He keeps stroking her, stretching her, and it's all she can do to grab his face and kiss him hard. 

The charged heat between them shifts then, sparks an urgency that sends another thrill down her spine. He presses up against her, and it’s the only warning she gets before he rolls them over and pins her beneath him. She arches upwards, keen to keep him close, grasping at his biceps as he holds himself above her. His pupils are blown wide open as he stares down at her, cheeks flushed, and she feels a heady satisfaction bloom in her chest at seeing him so worked up. 

“Hi,” she whispers, sliding her fingers up the back of his neck and into his hair.

He blinks, languid, refocusing out of the lust-fueled haze that’d fallen over him, and dips his head to nose along her jaw. The hand at her waist snakes back down to resume its motion, tugging her shorts down to her thighs and rubbing before spreading her with another finger. Her breath hitches as she tightens around his knuckles. 

A glint reflects in his eyes when he pulls back to meet her gaze again. “Hi, yourself.” 

“I know that look."

"Do you?"

She breathes heavily, planting her feet on the bed and chasing the movement of his hand with her hips. "You’re up to something."

His mouth is on her again, and he kisses her until she forgets everything but the comforting weight of him, the heat of his bare skin against hers, and the stretch of his fingers inside her. 

Then he’s gone and cold air hits her flushed skin. She blurrily blinks up at the ceiling in confusion, and is about to ask what he’s doing when his arms loop under her thighs and yank her to the edge of the bed. 

His smirk widens as she squeaks. “And if I am? Will I hear more complaints?” 

“Depends." She gives him a sly look as he impatiently tugs at her shorts and shucks off the rest of his clothes. “Are you going to keep me waiting?”

“Haven’t decided.” Yet despite the words, his hands are already adjusting her hips and lifting her legs to rest against his shoulders. She chews on her bottom lip in anticipation as he lines himself up, and a low moan escapes her lips when he finally slides into her heat. He gives a few short, experimental thrusts, eyes fixed on the way her mouth falls open, and she’s so wet it’s one smooth slide after another.

He takes a deep breath before pushing in to the hilt and pausing to press a soft kiss against her ankle. “Good?”

“Good,” she repeats with a gasp, grasping at the sheets above her head. “Just… move.” 

“If you ask nicely..." 

“I swear to the gods if you don't—” 

His low chuckle is punctuated by another roll of his hips.

All thoughts melt away as he sets a steady pace, and her eyes slide closed as she focuses on the feel of his skin meeting hers, the pleasant stretch of him, and the soft caresses along her legs. More than once she feels his lips press against her ankle and the sharp graze of teeth, and the short gusts of breath as he chases his own pleasure. 

She feels his eyes on her, on the way her breasts bounce as he jostles her forward, at how her mouth falls open with little sighs and moans at the slide of his cock. She knows when his gaze falls on where they're joined by the way he grips the fleshy part of her thighs and spreads them, and how he lets her knees slide to rest in the crooks of his elbows. 

She bites her lip and clenches around him, savoring the hitch in his breath with a small grin, and, knowing that he's watching, snakes a hand down to the apex of her thighs to add to the friction. The grip on her thighs tightens, and she only gets a few strokes in before he’s grabbing at her wrist and pinning it back above her head. 

Her eyes snap open to find him hovering above her, gaze darkened with lust and his breath coming as soft puffs against her face. He surges forward to kiss her, teeth clacking together in his urgency, and slides out of her. 

She whines. "Why'd you—"

He swallows her words, keeps her pinned beneath him, and begins to trail kisses down her chest, pinching at her breasts and turning her skin red with little bites, sliding further before coming to a rest between her legs. He settles her thighs on his shoulders, meets her clouded eyes, then drags his tongue along her heat.

Her hips buck into his mouth as another jolt shoots straight into her core. "F-fuck…"

An arm comes down heavily on her stomach, anchoring her in place, and her head falls back when he licks another long, slow line up her cunt, before his mouth closes in on the small bundle of nerves that has her seeing stars. She arches like a bow pulled taut and presses her heels against his back, clutching at the arm against her abdomen and fisting her fingers in his hair.

He’s relentless at winding her back up, encouraged by the sighs he pulls from her mouth and the twitch of her hips, and she soon feels the coil in her gut tightening once more under the pressure and drag of his tongue. 

Then he pulls away again and she nearly loses her mind. 

“Hush.” His voice is rough and heavy as he kisses her, and she tastes herself on him. “I’m not done with you yet.” Then he flips her so she’s on her stomach and chuckles when she stands on her tiptoes to rock back against him, seeking the missing friction. "Hold still, before I make you."

"Hurry up then," she mumbles. 

He clicks his tongue, but she hears the smile in his voice. "Always so impatient."

His hands grip firmly at the curve of her waist, and one palm traces up her spine to press between her shoulders and keep her flat against the bed. She stretches her arms forward as he takes his time sliding back into her, filling her inch by inch until his thighs are flush against her backside. 

“Don’t stop this time,” she mumbles, fingers grasping at the sheets. "Please."

There’s a brief, heavy lull as he leans forward to leave another kiss on her shoulder. “I won’t. Relax for me.”

She melts at his words, biting her lip and focusing on the building pressure and the steady roll of his hips as he tugs her to him with every thrust. Her toes curl as he picks up the pace. Blearily, and in the back of her mind, she wonders at how she must look right now, bent over like this, split open and vulnerable and completely under his control. She’s never let lovers take her like this. Never felt comfortable about being exposed in such a way. But the moment she thinks it, a caress passes up her spine like a reassurance as though he _knows,_ and the tension seeps right out of her. 

Still, her face feels too hot, her skin too tight, and her breath hitches as a particularly harsh thrust rocks up her entire body. "Please," she gasps, near trembling with how tightly she's wound up. "I'm so close."

A warm hand slides down her side. “I’ve got you. Let go for me, love."

The gentle command sets her off, and her mouth falls open when the molten coil in her gut finally snaps. His rhythm stutters as she crashes back down with a breathless shudder.

"Fuck," he pants above her. The fingers at her back snake into her hair again, digging at her scalp, and pressing her face further into the bed as his hips snap forward. "You feel so godsdamned good."

There will be a pleasant ache between her legs once he's done with her, she knows, with how he roughly fucks her into the mattress. But she's still floating in the immediate afterglow, loose and relaxed, and merely smiles dopily into the sheets as he chases his own high. 

She wriggles her hips to egg him on.

"Don't," he grunts out, fingers leaving marks in the curve of her waist. 

She does it again, and gasps at the sharp sting when his hand comes down on her backside. He repeats it, leaving a red print before smoothing a palm over the tingling skin. It only spurs her in return, and she bites her lip before propping herself up to rock back and meet him. It's not long before his pace loses its rhythm, and heat hits her back when he curls over her, looping an arm across her chest and clutching her to him. She sucks in a breath, tensing as he bites at the juncture of her shoulder, and scrambles to grip at his arm when he slams in and spills into her with a low groan.

He buries his face in her neck, panting, and his hips roll with a few last lazy thrusts before he stills. "...Fuck."

She giggles, lightheaded. "Yeah?"

That pulls another smile from him. Her head lolls to the side when he brushes aside her hair to trail his lips down her neck. She melts further against him as his iron grip loosens in favor of light caresses along her sides, soothing the red marks he'd left with gentle touches. 

There's a faint throb when he finally pulls away and leaves her empty. The slick between her legs is enough to make her turn pink, but when she turns to lay back against the sheets and finds him staring down at her in the same state she feels, the twinge of embarrassment fades. His eyes flicker between the evidence of their lovemaking, and she admires the flush on his cheeks, the sheen of sweat on his skin, and how wonderfully alive he looks in the moment. 

She beckons him with outstretched hands. “Come here, you.” 

He takes another deep breath, then slides both hands up her ribs and behind her back. The weight of him is comfortable as he presses her against the bed. 

Unrestrained affection shines in his gaze as he rests his forehead against hers. "Good?" 

She laughs softly and brushes the hair from his eyes. "Good. Great. Do it again.” 

He smiles against her mouth.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


She rides him slowly in the morning as he's settled against the dozen pillows on her bed.

They left the windows open overnight to let fresh air in, and she can taste the sea on her tongue as the occasional breeze sweeps through the room. There’s a distant cry of seagulls as dawn breaks, and the low rumble of waves breaking along the shore, but it’s all dull in her ears as her world narrows in on the space between them. 

He watches her move against him with half-lidded eyes, hands resting loosely on her hips. "You’re insatiable, aren't you?"

 _Yes_ , she wants to say. _Yes, when it involves you_. 

“Is that so bad?” She breathes out instead, reaching for him. “That I’ll always want you?”

The muscles in his stomach flex as he pushes himself up until they’re chest to chest. A soft breeze sweeps in from the open window, cooling their flushed skin, and her hands clutch at his shoulders when he wraps both arms around her. 

"Greedy girl," he whispers, lips soft against her jaw. "You already have me. You've had me for moons." 

Her head lolls as he peppers small, tender kisses along her neck. "You've had me since you came to Norvrandt. Since we learned of our shared soul. Since we came here—you've had me."

"You’ve had me too," she murmurs back, cradling his face with her palms. “For longer than you know."

He kisses her until it feels like she's drowning, until the lines between them blur, and until she understands what it means to share a soul with someone so acutely that their feelings blend into one. 

_I know_ , she hears whispered in her head like a caress. _I know._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He takes her again, and again and again, on the bed and against the wall and once by an open window at the back end of the house, bending her over in full view of the sea. They grab at each other like teenagers discovering pleasure for the first time, like they're making up for lost time, stealing lazy kisses between lulls and gasping breaths, and mapping each other’s bodies until the roaming touches turn heated yet again. 

He takes her until her legs shake, until spots dance across her eyes, until her thighs are slick with him, and she laughs shakily and gently smacks his hand away when it snakes down her belly once more. 

"If you fuck me one more time I might just pass out."

Ardbert smirks against her shoulder, but his fingers mercifully move to rest at her hip. 

She lays beside him feeling boneless and satisfied and a bit lightheaded like she’s not all there, but more relaxed than she has in months. Her eyes flutter closed, and she stretches across the soft sheets like a cat.

He props himself up on one elbow and traces vague shapes up and along her abdomen. The calluses of wielding an axe all day are a pleasant scrape against her skin, and the touch sends a warm jolt down to her core. She instinctively clenches, hips twitching. The overstimulation is all at once too much. 

A soft wince hisses past her teeth. "Fuck."

“Thought I just heard you said you were done, but if you’re asking...” 

She grabs at his hand when it creeps down again, even though she knows he’s joking. "And you called me the insatiable one."

He laughs softly, a warm and open sound. “It seems we both are. Not that I’m sorry about it.” She cracks open an eye to peer at him, and he gazes down at her with an easy smile. “It... has been some time since I've done this." 

“I’m not saying I wouldn’t enjoy it, but we can’t make up for decades in a day.” 

“And thank the gods for that.” He chuckles and catches her wrist when she playfully swats at him, then presses a kiss against her knuckles. His gaze flickers over the marks he’d left all across her skin. “I was too rough with you.” 

"Really? Have you looked at yourself?” She runs her thumb along the faded scratches at his shoulders. “I would’ve said so if you did anything I didn’t like, you know." 

He hums and raises a brow at her, and she gets the distinct feeling like he’s filing that tidbit of information away. She bites her lip to quash down the impending blush as he resumes tracing paths along her body. 

She sighs and settles into the quiet intimacy, relaxing as her pulse settles and listening to the muffled, comforting lull of the ocean beyond the walls. 

Eventually, his fingers slow to a stop along a faint scar just under her ribs. "I did this,” he says, and she hears the distance in his tone. “I remember.” 

Her eyes remain closed. "It was a clean cut. It healed well."

"I could have killed you."

"That was the point back then."

“Had I just tilted the axe a little further…” His breath tickles her hair as he exhales. "Not an outcome I'm eager to think about."

"Then don’t. And I landed some pretty bad hits on you too, if I remember right."

"You did,” he says with a subdued smile. “Lamitt kept muttering about the concussions you were doling out."

"What else was I to do? You were hounding me no matter what I threw at you." She curls towards him and peers up through her lashes. "Much like our run through Mor Dhona, actually. You know if you wanted my attention that badly back then you could have just asked."

"And you would've given it so freely?"

"Well," she stretches the word out, tapping a pattern against his chest and pretending to think. "I might've thrown a few more boulders your way. But you would’ve shrugged it off like the walking mountain that you are." 

He snorts, and traces another line down her side. “What a pair we would’ve made.”

She smiles, but the topic has snagged her thoughts like a hook. "If Urianger hadn’t intervened when he did… and if you succeeded with what you meant to do with the chains..."

His hand pauses its trail, then once again slides behind and up her back. His arm flexes as he pulls her flush against him. One leg twines between hers. 

There were too many 'what ifs' to consider. What if Urianger was too late? What if Alisaie's gambit failed? What if she hadn't been able to heal herself in time? Or if Ardbert had done more than just graze her? 

"I know," he repeats into her hair, quieter this time. "I know."

She reaches up to rub her thumb across his pinched brows. “We were both doing what we thought best at the time," she says, soft. "And it's all history now regardless. Weren't you the one to say regrets aren't worth lingering on?"

He studies her a moment longer before sighing. His lips press to her forehead. "And that they belong in the past, aye.” 

"Then let's follow that advice. There's too much pain there for the both of us and too easy to get lost in it." She tilts her chin up and steals a quick kiss. "Now... I don't know about you, but I'm starving. There's a few places around here that stay open far past dark. Though we should probably wash ourselves before anything else."

He smirks. "Need me to carry you?"

"So smug," she playfully bites at him. "Let me try walking first." 

**xi. ardbert**

By the time they decide to rejoin the rest of the world, Eorzea has turned to prepare for The Rising. 

It’s a celebration—what an odd word for it, he thinks—that has no equivalent in Norvrandt. Perhaps in future years there may be something to mark the return of night, and he’d heard murmurs of such before they left, but as far as his knowledge stretches there has never been something similar. 

“We still mourn, of course,” she tells him when he voices the question. “The time before and the lives lost. But we also celebrate our survival. The persistence to carry on.” 

His gaze slides across the piles of crystal scattered throughout the aftcastle of Limsa Lominsa, the streamers and blue flags flapping in the sea wind, and the way the people help one another with verve despite the solemn occasion.

"Seven calamities,” he says, exhaling slowly as the magnitude of Eorzea’s history hits him. “While we barely survived one. And to think we tried to usher in yet another..." 

His shoulders weigh heavy with the knowledge of what his actions brought—on both worlds. 

He reminds himself it’s in the past. 

She leans back against the stone half-wall behind them. “You’ve seen the ruins left behind during our travels. The remains of the Allagans from the fourth calamity. The ruins of Nym and Mhach from the sixth. And, of course, the corrupted crystals around Eorzea and fragments of Dalamud from the seventh. Bahamut left scars that won’t heal for years.” 

“Hard to believe something the size of a moon truly fell,” he says, and his gaze flickers to the sky. He squints against the glare of the sun. “I can’t even imagine a sight like that.” 

A wry smile tugs on her lips. “It didn’t happen all at once. I remember everyone first thinking it was a trick of the light—that perhaps something was wrong with the aether and some sort of mirage covered the skies—but as it grew ever closer the reality was unmistakable. And by then… how do you prepare for something like a falling moon?”

His shoulders drop at how many lives had been lost. At how close they came to an eighth rejoining. At how close Norvrandt came to nearly meeting the same fate. And how strange it is to consider that only he and the Scions know of this, of the truth behind the disasters which have brought civilization after civilization to its knees spanning the history of the Source. 

She sighs behind him, and tilts her head back to stare dully at some passing clouds. "Anyway. People are resilient, for better or for worse, and that’s what we celebrate. Even after the eighth calamity in the future when everything was in shambles… there were those who went on. Those that still had hope."

“It takes strength to do something like that,” he says, solemn. “Living once the dust settles, when everyone around you falls and you’re all that’s left standing. Dying is far too attractive an option then. That they didn’t speaks of their resolve... and...” he trails off as the words rub something raw in him as they leave his lips, uncovering a truth he’s been ignoring ever since. 

He’d been more than ready to die alongside his friends to stop the flood. He _did_ die, on their first go-around to the Source. And there were so, so many times where he’d wished for naught but oblivion in the long years that followed. 

He sucks in a breath. 

He’d come so close to that same edge. 

A hand wraps around the crook of his elbow and squeezes lightly at his bicep, just as the thought crosses his mind. 

“You’re still here,” she says softly, fiercely, anchoring him right back in the present. “You are. Despite everything the world has thrown at you—you are still here.”

He leans into her touch, drawn to the warmth and primal reassurance of physical contact. His throat feels tight. “...Right. We both are.”

“Mm. I never did tell you where I’d been during all this, have I?” She nods at the festival preparations, and her gaze goes distant, focused on a point far beyond him. Her thumb still rubs reassuring circles into his skin, and his heart warms at the gesture. 

“I was nineteen when Dalamud fell,” she says. “When it just became my sister and I. It was rough, at first. Everyone suffered those first five years."

He doesn’t even need the Echo to picture it. Her, sprinting through the crumbling streets of Ul’dah as the sky rained fire. People tripping over each other as the city descended into pure panic. Amh Araeng had reacted similarly in the wake of the flood. 

She blinks and refocuses, then plasters on a smile. "But it has all worked out so far. We're still here, as you said. Eorzea is fine, Norvrandt is still kicking, and Ryne’s doing her utmost to get the rest of the First primed for life. I'd say that's good all things considered, right?” 

And still, he can hear the hesitation hidden in her voice, the lingering uncertainty as they both inevitably consider what’s yet to come. His chest aches as her strained cheeriness falters. He tugs her to him by the hand resting in the crook of his elbow and rests his chin on her head, holding her in a loose embrace. 

They’ve yet to close the topic of Zenos. Danced around it, sure, but never fully addressed it.

He trails a finger up her side, tracing the seam of her shirt. "What is it I told you before? The last time we’d been backed into a corner?"

She sags against him. "I know."

"Humor me. What did I say?"

"We fight as one," she mumbles into his shirt, fingers clenching around the fabric by his waist. “I said I know.”

"I don’t think you do." He pulls back to meet her eyes, gaze firm. "Standing together has gotten us through one would-be calamity. Should another dawn—"

“We’ll do just the same,” she finishes. “I just… I don't want to lose you, as I said."

He feels irritation flare up. "And how do you think I feel? After everything I've lost?" 

She winces lightly at that, ducking her head. “...I’m sorry.” 

He exhales through his nose and thinks for a moment. The festival staff beyond them has managed to pin up a line of decorative blue flags, and he watches as they move to set up pillars of crystal next. “A compromise then, considering that neither of us are likely to yield on this… and I doubt a city-state such as this will take kindly to a similar spat between us.”

“I’m listening.”

“While the simplest solution would be for neither of us to die—” A light snort escapes her, and he smiles slightly into her hair, “—Something more practical would be for the both of us to expand our abilities. Branch out, learn something new.”

She pulls back to frown at him. “I said I would learn how to use a melee weapon.”

“So you did, but I would be far more reassured if I knew you could also shrug off blows as I do."

Her mouth clicks shut, and her eyes flicker to the weapon over his shoulder. “You want me to learn how to swing an axe.” 

“No. I want you to shield yourself with aether as I do.” 

“But my barriers—” she cuts off when his expression goes flat. Her lips thin, but he can see the gears turning in her head. “...Fine. Only if _you_ learn how to heal.” 

He raises a brow. “You’ve seen me try my hand at magic.” 

“And you’ve seen me try and swing your axe.” 

They stare at each other. 

He eventually huffs, and pinches her waist. “Alright. Fair’s fair.” 

“It’s a plan then,” she says, and his stomach does a pleasant flip at the crooked grin she gives him. “I’ll let Krile know she has a new student.” 

“That eager to train with Thancred and I, are you?” 

She rests her forehead against his chest. “Ha. Well if we plan to make fools of ourselves, we might as well make a day of it with the rest of the group. See who else is interested in learning new skills.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The Scions stare at them with varying degrees of interest when they next step into the Rising Stones together. His stride falters at their curious glances, and Mihren comes to a halt beside him as well. 

“What?” she asks, raising a brow at the table of four staring at them. “Did we miss something?”

Y’shtola peers at them over the rim of her teacup, eyes glittering, before her lips twitch and she returns her attention to the cards splayed out on the table.

“Well,” Thancred says dryly, leaning back with an arm across the back of his chair. “So it _was_ serious. Interesting.” 

Mihren groans softly at the light tease in his tone, then stomps over to the bar to grab them both a drink. Ardbert takes the empty seat beside Alphinaud, settling in as Alisaie collects the cards and shuffles them. 

She watches him with a sly glint and the curve of a smirk. He gets the same sense of foreboding he usually does in her presence. “I take it the two of you have settled whatever dispute you nearly trashed the outskirts for,” she says lightly. 

“We did,” he says, careful, as Mihren takes the seat beside him and passes a cup. “Though we didn’t mean to cause such a ruckus. Sorry for that.” 

Alisaie just hums. The cards snap neatly in her hands. “No apologies necessary. After all, it was I who suggested that a good thrashing would knock some sense into her.” Her eyes flit between them. “Though I guess you decided to leave no meaning of the word to chance.” 

Mihren chokes. 

Thancred barks out a laugh, and Y'shtola hides a smirk behind her cup.

“Alisaie!” Alphinaud turns beet red in mere seconds. “By the Twelve. Must you be so coarse?” 

Ardbert raises an arm and firmly smacks Mihren on the back as she continues to cough. She jostles forward with the force, but shoots him a thankful look. 

“I’m guessing everyone knows?” she asks when she can speak again, clearing her throat. “Not that we made an effort to hide things, but…”

“It was always obvious,” Y’shtola says, idly inspecting the cards dealt to her. “To some more than others. Though you both certainly took your time at reaching a decision.”

Thancred does the same, then places the cards face down and points an accusing finger at them. “I’ll say. The two of you nearly cost me a small fortune.” 

Ardbert stares blankly at him from across the table. “There was a betting pool?” 

“Unfortunately,” Alphinaud mumbles, ears still tinged pink, trying and failing to hide behind his flush of cards. “And yes, before you ask—all of us placed bets.”

Alisaie cackles next to him. “You’re only upset you lost. Did I not tell you to bet lower?” 

“How was I supposed to know!”

“Please, like we haven’t been friends with her for years!”

Mihren’s attention slides to Y’shtola as the twins snipe back and forth. “And how were your fortunes?”

Y’shtola tilts her head and carefully sets a card down in the middle. “Need you even ask? I won, of course.” 

“Of course,” Mihren repeats, dry. “A wonder anyone ever bets against you.”

“You’d think they would learn by now. Alas, I can but indulge their attempts to best me until then.” 

Ardbert shakes his head, exasperated at the Scions' antics, even as fondness sweeps through him. The teasing doesn’t embarrass him nearly as much as he expects it to, and he can’t help but feel a welcoming, warm sense of belonging alongside her friends.

 _Their friends_ , he corrects. 

Their friends. 

The thought twists a familiar ache in his chest. There’s something he’s yet to do, he knows. 

He gingerly takes a sip of his drink as Alisaie and Alphinaud’s bickering tapers off, and is pleasantly surprised at the familiar, strong kick of Norvrandt ale. He blinks, and lifts his gaze to meet Thancred’s expectant stare and one-sided smirk across the table.

“Good, right? Figured you preferred that sort after your constant choice of water.” 

“How did…?” 

Thancred’s eyes slide purposefully at Mihren beside him, who promptly raises her own cup and refuses to look at him. “I may have gotten a barrel or two from the Crystarium,” she mumbles. “Or five.” 

He hides a smile and savors the taste.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He comes to the decision days later.

It was beyond time.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


A seagull cries far above them. It soars high overhead, gliding on the breeze, before dipping sharply towards the sea and disappearing from sight.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she murmurs. They stand alone at the edge of a steep cliff, a hundred fulms above sea level and far from any town. Wind swirls around them and kicks up the loose fabric of his shirt. 

He takes a deep breath as waves crash against the cliffside, the sound dull and distant below them. The taste of salt is thick on his tongue here.

"They deserve as much,” he says, quiet. “And I need it as well. Or I’ll never move on."

Norvrandt now knew the truth of their sacrifice, it’s true—

But there was never time for a proper funeral. 

The pouch grasped in his left hand weighs heavy as a sack of stones. He slowly unties the knot and pulls out the tail end of a broken arrow, just barely the length of his finger. The two green adventurers he'd downed a hoglet for had done their best to help despite their hesitation, and he still hopes they learned something of worth from him.

"To Renda-Rae," he says, raising the fragile wood to catch the sun, even as his eyes stare glassy and unfocused at the ocean before them. "Always quickest on the draw and never one to miss a hunt. Stubborn to the last, with one of the biggest hearts I've ever known." 

He stares at the dark piece between his fingers, then gently places the broken arrow in Mihren's open palm. She meets his gaze, searching, grey eyes hesitant. 

He swallows hard and gives a stiff nod. 

Her fingers curl. The wood catches fire in her palm, charring black before crumbling into ash. They watch in silence as a breeze sweeps the remains up and beyond the edge of the cliff, scattering them to the horizon. 

The first step is always hardest, he knows, and so he sucks in another shaky breath and pulls out the next piece before he can hesitate. 

A thin, deep purple ribbon rests between his thumb and forefinger, and he takes a moment to watch it flutter in the sea breeze. The axe Mihren had made for him months ago was intricate, far more detailed than he's ever had, and one of the first things he did was wrap a strand of cloth along the bottom of the handle.

"To Branden," he says, and his lungs constrict painfully. "Dainty things such as this had little use to us, but you always said that sentimental values hold just as much weight. That symbols ground people, give them something to rally around. I wish it didn’t take death for me to fully learn that lesson. I—we—wished for a lot of things not to happen. But you were always the first to raise your head and carry on despite it all, making sure the rest of us had a moment to do the same.”

Mihren hovers behind him, watching respectfully and offering quiet support, and he’s thankful that she gives him the space even as he chokes down the swelling lump in his throat. 

He holds out his hand. Gentle fingers slip the ribbon from his clenched fist. 

The soft fabric goes up in a small flame. Its threads fray while the color seeps away into dullness. And then it is gone as the wind carries the remains from her open palm. 

The pouch in his hand feels heavier now, as though he’s adding to it instead of removing. But he can’t stop. He won’t be able to do it again if he does.

A small, torn page comes next, crisp to the touch. 

"To Nyelbert. I'm sorry to say that I've yet to grasp any of your lessons in magic, and Mihren here would be the first to rub it in with you.” A rueful smile tugs at his lips at the recollection, and he hears her huff out a soft laugh behind him. “I’ve always been rubbish at it. Could never understand the intricacies of the art as you did. And while we were all a stubborn lot, determined to make it in our own ways, you honed that focus into something else. It was a guiding light. For all of us.” 

He passes it to Mihren.

"This is a page from my books," she notes quietly, speaking up for the first time. "So you _were_ trying to learn a spell back then."

“For all the good it did.” 

Her smile is soft. “You’ve plenty of time to keep trying.” 

Flames eat away at the parchment, curling the edges until it becomes a small pinch of soot in her palm. A final bit of alchemy. He’d appreciate that, Ardbert thinks as wind claims the ash.

He doesn’t want to pull out the last piece. 

He waits, and waits and waits, hoping the pressure in his chest eases just enough for him to be able to speak without choking on the words, but it only swells until it becomes nigh unbearable. So with another ragged breath, lips pressed in a thin line, he slowly pulls out the small, protective wooden charm he’d been given from a passing conjurer during one of his solo travels through Gridania. 

It sits in his palm like lead.

"To Lamitt," he says, and falters as his throat closes completely. 

Mihren becomes a wobbly blur at the edge of his vision as he blinks back tears. She takes a step closer to place a warm hand reassuringly on his back. It helps.

It’s also the final straw. 

He clenches his jaw as the dam he’s been holding back finally breaks. Hot tears spill down his cheeks and his lungs constrict until it feels like he’s drowning. But it's all accompanied by warm, soothing relief, like pressure hissing free. He pushes through it to give voice to the weight on his shoulders—the memories he has carried for a century and beyond. 

"To Lamitt,” he says thickly. “My first… my first friend. I would’ve died on the side of the road were it not for you. We all would’ve, so many times over, were it not for you. There's very little I wouldn’t have done for you... for any of you, but you were always the first. Family always hits the hardest and yours was never an easy lot. I can only hope that we grew into one you were proud of.” 

The dull edges of the charm dig into his palm as he grips at it like a lifeline. Grief rocks him with the force of a wave. 

Mihren steps forward and gently, firmly closes both hands over his. He feels the familiar spark of her aether rise up and the comforting warmth of it tingle across his skin, and they watch in silence as the charm crumbles in on itself under a carefully guided spell. Once her part is done she lowers her hands, but remains at his side, ever patient. 

His vision tunnels. His heart thumps painfully in his chest. 

He forces himself to unclench his fist. The ashes are gone in a grey swirl, swept into the distance and beyond his grasp. The knowledge that there is no going back after this—that the only way is ever forward—soothes a part of the heartache.

“That’s it then,” Mihren murmurs beside him.

“No,” he whispers, near inaudible. “There’s one more.” 

He holds up the empty pouch in his hand. 

"To me," he says with a soft smile, feeling her confused stare on his face. "Or to the ghost of who I once was. I didn't ever think that the past would let go of me. That the pain, the sorrow, the mistakes I've made… would ever be something I could move beyond. And yet...”

He turns to her then and catches the light sheen of tears in her eyes, too. She bites her lip and ducks her head, but raises a hand all the same. He gently clasps it in his, settling the pouch between their palms. It frays and disintegrates under the bite of her magic, leaving ash locked between them. They release their hands at the same time.

“There,” he murmurs, watching the last bits of black disappear between the twin blues of sky and sea. “Now it’s done.” 

Exhaustion settles over his shoulders as he sucks in a deep, shuddering breath, feeling drained in the wake of it all. He can still feel the burn of tears and there's a familiar hollowness in his chest, but he feels lighter than he has in years—like a backbreaking burden has been lifted from him. 

Her fingers intertwine with his and give a reassuring squeeze as he stares straight ahead.

They linger in silence on the cliffside until he feels ready to go. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The shoreline along the east side of Vylbrand stretches for malms. The sand is soft between his toes, the water warm as it laps at his ankles, and he’s familiar enough with the geography now to know Costa del Sol is somewhere to the south. 

The sun had dipped behind the rolling hills and outcrops of rocks in the west mere minutes ago, tinting the sky in deep oranges and pinks. Sun beams cut up and through the clouds. 

They keep a leisurely pace despite the coming dusk, content to walk without a destination in mind. 

"Can I ask you something?” she asks, gently squeezing at his hand, eyes unfocused as she stares straight ahead. 

He smiles at the memory it sparks even as lethargy continues to plague him. It’s a notably good exhaustion, one that he hasn’t felt in a long time. A bone-deep relief that leaves his limbs loose and relaxed. “Go on.” 

“Why did you agree to come here? To the Source, I mean. I know I’ve asked before, but you’ve never given me a straight answer."

He waits for the dull pang of homesickness at the mention of Norvrandt.

It never comes.

He hums, curious. "The First has no need of me anymore."

She frowns beside him. "But there's so much that needs to be done."

"There is,” he agrees easily, “but it's also been over a hundred years since I'd walked it as more than a shade. Not to mention that now, thanks to our friend Elidibus, there are more than enough would-be heroes to defend it.” He tilts his head back at the darkening sky, gaze pensive. “Hardly needs me there to stand watch any longer." 

She mutters irritably, scowling as a wave turns over a line of shells before them. "I still can't believe he had the audacity to parade your body like that. Around me. Around _us_. Like we're not experts on Ascian scheming by this point."

His lips twitch at the memory. She’d been up in arms about it for days. "Suffice it to say, the First has well moved on without me. It's something I've made my peace with. But here, at Eorzea..."

"It’s a fresh start?” 

"Or something close to one. We've history no matter what world we're on, it seems. What with our shared soul and all."

She nudges at him, and he moves left to provide space as they step around a clump of washed-up seaweed. “That just means you're meant to be stuck with me. Or us, I suppose, seeing as there’s a handful more of us somewhere in the other worlds. But you’ll have to settle with just me for now."

She’d meant it as a joke, he knows, but he just squeezes her hand. "Not the worst fate I can imagine."

“Ha. Just wait, you’ll be searching for a way to get to another shard before the year ends.” 

“And even now you doubt my tenacity,” he says dryly, then stops and gently turns her to face him. “What will it take for you to believe me the first time I say something?” 

She trails both hands up his arms before resting them loosely on his shoulders, and pretends to think. “Mm. I don’t know. What are you thinking might work?” 

A slight smile spreads on his face as she stares up at him, eyes sparkling and expectant. He shakes his head, fond, then dips down to slant his mouth against hers. She melts against him, one hand weaving into his hair, and he tugs at her waist until every line of her is flush against him. 

They’re both panting softly by the time he pulls back, and he relishes the faint blush on her cheeks. 

“That’s a good start,” she mumbles, distracted. “But I think you can do better.”

He just grins and kisses her again, laughing as she shrieks in surprise when a stray wave crashes too close to them and soaks the full length of her legs. He’d seen it approach over her shoulder. The reaction is exactly what he’d been hoping for. 

She clutches at his arms, on her tiptoes to get away from the second swelling right on its heels, and tries to step around him. 

“Wh—hey! No! _Ardbert!_ ” She shrieks again when he locks an arm around her waist, then hoists her up by the thighs and heads straight for it. She wraps around him like a clinging koala, and he turns his head to avoid getting salt in his eyes as the wave soaks them both. 

She buries her face in his neck as he wades right into the sea, stopping just above waist level. The water is pleasantly warm against his skin, and he digs his toes into the soft sand below. His trousers cling to him while her skirt floats up and fans out behind her, and he adjusts his grip on her to be more sure. 

“Our clothes are going to smell like seasalt for days now, you know,” she tells him with a huff, glaring without any heat from under the wet mop of hair now plastered to her forehead. “Hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“Are those complaints I hear?” He loosens his grip and she sinks an inch. She immediately tightens her legs around his waist and clutches at his shoulders. His smirk widens. “No?” 

“Arse,” she mumbles, then grabs at his face with wet fingers. “You’re lucky I like you so much.”

“Just like, is it?”

“Careful,” she says and playfully flicks water at him. “We’re surrounded by my favorite element and _I’m_ still the mage here.” 

He holds her gaze, and just as he considers letting go, she grins and tugs at his hair, angles her head and steals another kiss. He sighs into it and closes his eyes to savor the quiet moment, slipping one hand under her shirt to rest at the small of her back. 

“Say,” she murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak. “The sun’s already down, but do you want to go and see where that leads tomorrow? I’ve never actually explored the full length of the eastern shores.” 

He follows her sight over his shoulder, at the stretch of shore they’d been walking along. The footprints they left behind are long gone, swept away by the rolling waves. “Hoping we’ll find something?” 

“Don’t know. I’m sure people have probably combed through for treasure or whatever, but who knows? Maybe we’ll find some unexplored nook we can claim.” 

Affection pierces through him. Of course she remembered. “I’d like that.”

“Perfect.” She kisses him one last time, chaste. “Now come on, there’s a bath back home with our names on it.” 

He feels her aether intertwine with his, coaxing him in the direction of the Mist. He smiles against her skin. 

_Home_ , he thinks, and his heart swells with how right the word sounds. 

It’s home. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I was possessed by a demon when I wrote this. I have no regrets. (Please let me know if it visits you so I can wine and dine it properly.) 
> 
> Huge thank you to Ember and Iaso for reviewing this monster of a fic and wrangling it into something that makes sense. Ember, especially, for listening to me and my dumb ideas at 12am and constant worries over whether or not things will work out. Honestly this fic wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for you. Ily.
> 
> Some other notes:
> 
> [1]. I know there's a lot of handwaving on how aether works here. And how a lot of things may or may not work in-game. Don't worry about it. We're not going for realism and canon is already a not-so-fond memory so it doesn't matter. I promise. We're in AU territory, fam. Just enjoy this ride with me. 
> 
> [2]. Gpose is fun and I have no regrets on that either.
> 
> [3]. Likewise, here's a [pinterest](https://www.pinterest.com/masqvias/mihren-ffxiv/) board for Mihr for anyone interested. I tend to pull a lot of inspiration from visual images. (And a [spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5IEcpUDuA2g2Zuv3ns6bX7?si=F6HHYCE-R_WRp2r5Rq0b_A) playlist, cause why not?) 
> 
> [4]. This is a oneshot as of now (hah.. at 40k... 'oneshot'), but I may write another follow-up fic in the future. Who knows? We'll see how game patches go. 
> 
> [5]. This is probably best read on desktop, as the images look weird on mobile. Sorry! 
> 
> [6]. I will simp for Ardbert on any day of the week. Comment/like/throw him a kiss if you would too. (help me. i'm forever in horny jail because of this man.) 
> 
>   
> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


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